Dreaming Through The Twilight
by Viv1
Summary: It's Claire's turn now to take a leap of faith, to help those in need. Set after the explosion in HSTAEM. PeterClaire friendship, HRG. PG13. This story is now COMPLETE.
1. Part One

Title: "Dreaming Through The Twilight"  
Rating: PG-13  
Characters: Peter/Claire, HRG (er, Noah Bennet)  
Summary: It's Claire's turn now to take a leap of faith, to help those in need. Set after the explosion.  
Spoilers: 1.23 How to Stop An Exploding Man  
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, just borrowing. All NBC's and Tim Kring's. Please don't sue!  
Author's Notes: My rather garbled reaction fic after watching HTSAM. My take on how things could continue/jump off into Season 2 (of course, I will be wrong, but whatever ...). There's also a note at the end to explain something that, if I put up here, may spoil things for the story.

Feedback is love!

**Dreaming Through the Twilight**

**By Viv**

_When I am dead, my dearest_  
_Sing no sad songs for me. _  
_Plant thou no roses at my head_  
_Nor shady cypress tree._  
_Be the green grass above me_  
_With showers and dewdrops wet._  
_And if thou wilt remember, _  
_And if thou wilt, forget. _

_I shall not see the sunshine_  
_I shall not feel the rain_  
_I shall not hear the nightingale _  
_Sing on as if in pain._  
_And dreaming through the twilight_  
_That doth not rise nor set._  
_I haply may remember,_  
_And haply may forget. _  
_- Christina Rosetti_

"Claire." She stirs, moans in her sleep. The nightmare (or is it a dream? She can't decide) seems as real as anything she's ever been through in her short life, and yet she can't shake it.

Won't, because it's the only thing that ties her to him now. Ties him to her.

She listens for it night after night, almost against her will. She knows it's unhealthy for her to not let go, to wait impatiently for him, but she can't help it. Well and truly can't help it because he's a part of her and she – well, she's a part of him.

Which is why, when she closes her weary eyes every night, she looks forward to dreaming of him.

"Claire." She opens her eyes and he's there, dark eyes the colour of midnight fountains, reaching for the heavens. She'll always remember Peter Petrelli that way, her knight in shining armour. The gentle soul with the heart of gold and a way of coming to her rescue that was positively uncanny.

It's destiny, he would have whispered to her, had they been sitting together like the night before the explosion.

They're not really sitting together because this is just a dream, but somehow, they are. They're sitting side by side in a field of colour, kaleidoscopic colour that paints their reality as it should have been, not what it is. Reds, whites and yellows melt into a field of greens and golds; the sun beats down in gentle waves and the breeze ripples through her golden hair. Through his dark strands, lighting up his entire face. His eyes, the colour of hazel midnight, stares straight into hers.

"You're here."

She nods, takes his hand in hers. She likes it here, wherever 'here' is. She can still be with Peter without worrying about destiny, the world and everything, be free of everything that had weighed her down the last few weeks. Ever since her life had went on a rampage of craziness, she'd been steadily drowning under the weight of the world.

The only thing that had kept her afloat was the thought – no, knowledge – of her heroes. Her dad, and Peter. She could even add Nathan now to that list, although Claire doesn't want to think about her biological father now. She hates the words that ring in her ears whenever she thinks of Nathan, the last words that flew out of her mouth just before she jumped out of the window to freedom, away from him.

He'd proven himself to be a hero worthy of a thousand tales. Peter was right, she thought sadly. His trust in his brother had been right.

She should have known Peter's trust in Nathan hadn't been mistakenly placed. Peter's gift wasn't his ability to absorb other people's powers – his gift was one of love and trust and belief in the goodness of people. His belief was what had enabled Nathan to make the ultimate sacrifice; his belief was what had enabled Nathan to save the world.

"Hey, don't be sad. Don't ever be sad for us." He wipes the tears streaming down her cheek, just as he did that day near the fountain at Kirby Plaza. This time though, both his hands caress her face. They look into each other's eyes, deeply, emerald and hazel ones shining in the sun.

"I can't help it." Claire whispers, placing a hand over one of his still on her cheek. "I didn't even get a chance to know you, or Nathan."

He smiles, a sad, lilting smile that still has his trademark crookedness. "But you did. We met, when we shouldn't have. We had a week together, running around. Trying to save the world." She dips her gaze painfully but he gently forces her face up to his again. "Guess what, Claire? We saved the world."

"But you're not here." She cries and she doesn't know why she has to pretend it doesn't bother her. It bothers her she's not more upset during the daylight hours about this, it bothers her that Peter and Nathan made the ultimate sacrifice and all she could do is grab onto the only father she has ever known and loved and plead with him to take her home. To keep her safe, because her other two heroes were gone and she's only a 16 year old girl and she wants – no needs – someone to keep her safe. To protect her like she ached to be protected; to love her like the little girl she still craved to be.

Not like the girl who had nearly been forced to put a bullet into her uncle's brain. Not like the girl who had almost done it – would have done it – if Nathan hadn't shown up.

That was the thing that haunts Claire, day and night. No matter how much hindsight she applies, no matter how reasonable her choice had been – she knew she would have done it. Killed the man who had saved her life because it was what he would have done.

Killing one man to save millions of lives. The math had been a no brainer, even for someone like her. And she would have done it. The thought of chills her blood, makes her wish for death.

"I _am _here." He gives her a chaste kiss, their foreheads touching in a gesture of intimacy that leaves her breathless but calm. She doesn't know what's happening or why she keeps dreaming of this or him; she doesn't know which way is up anymore or which is right or wrong, the only thing she knows is what she feels, and what she feels is right.

"You are." She sniffs and looks at him with red-rimmed eyes. He's haloed by the bright light but the glare doesn't hurt her eyes. Instead, it bathes her in a kind of serenity she's never felt before. "Am I dreaming? Is this real?" It's not entirely necessary for her to ask but he winks anyway, something she's never seen him do in real life.

"What's to say what's real and what's not Claire?"

She shrugs, averts his gaze. She becomes entranced by their entwined hands, his fingers laced through hers. She's never held a boy's hands this long and her breath hitches – hitches with the realization that she may never hold Peter's hands again. "I want this to be real."

"Maybe it isn't." He doesn't say it harshly, but just lets it sink in.

"If it's not real, then all this doesn't mean anything!"

"No, it does mean something. You just have to figure it out."

She thought she'd fought her way out of a life full of cryptic puzzles, but here Peter was, introducing yet another one to her. "Figure what out, Peter? I can't – I'm just a girl. I don't understand what –"

He puts a soft finger to lips, hushing her. "You will. You'll find me."

A curtain raises in front of her and her eyes widen, truth plain for her to see. It had been staring blatantly at her and she had been blind to everything but Peter in her dreams. Filling the nightly void with dreams of his sparkling friendship, the wonder that their lives could have been with each other. "I'll find you? But – how?"

He smiles a secretly little smile, tucks his bangs behind his ears. He's 26 but doesn't look it, not without the burdens that had been weighing him down during the time she had known him. She sees the sparkle in his eyes, along with the love, trust, hope and something so much more. Belief. "You'll find me. Because you know."

"I know?" The last shred of truth still eludes her, but she feels like unfurling in slow motion. She knows, she senses, she feels. She feels what's there, or rather – who's there. Someone she cares about deeply, someone she needs to find. "I know."

He smiles again, warmly and serenely. Gets up and brushes pollen and specks of mud and grass off his pristinely tailored pants, grins down at her with fire in his eyes. "I'll be waiting Claire. He needs us."

It was on the tip of Claire's lips, but she knew – somehow she knew. "Nathan's still alive?"

Peter nods, extends a hand to help her up. His hands give hers a tight squeeze and the contact is wonderful and soothing at the same time. "Don't you feel it?" He asks, and the question ignites something in her.

"I do Peter, I do." Instinctively they embrace and it feels so wonderful to be with him. This person who is her uncle and her friend and something else at the same time, something that was so much more.

The future isn't written in stone, but she knows their future. They were destined to meet and destined to find each other. Peter had done his part, and now it was up to her to do hers.

"I know you will Claire." He puts his hands in his pockets, the gesture so casual it almost hurts her to see it as he starts strolling away into the light. "I'll be waiting for you."

_Author's Note: So the idea of the prophetic (sort of) dreaming came from Peter's conversation with Charles Devaux in HTSAM. I can't decide whether Charles' power is controlling people's dreams, or even more powerful - he can actually appear and manipulate other people's dreams. As Peter was most definitely around Charles when he started "manifesting", I've fanwanked that he has this power.  
_


	2. Part Two

**Part Two**

"Claire?" When she opens her eyes again her dad is there, gently shaking her awake. The bright glare of the morning sunshine blinds her as she looks into his tired, red-rimmed eyes. He's been driving all night and she sighs; she really shouldn't have let him do that. He promised he'd wake her after a few hours but true to form, had let her sleep because he thought she needed the rest.

If only he knew she wasn't resting. Just dreaming the twilight away, selfishly enjoying the time while her dad worried and toiled, putting as much distance between them and New York as humanly possible.

"Care to share, Claire-bear?" He asks again, using their old secret phrase. It usually makes her smile, the way he says it, so light hearted and playful. But it doesn't this time, because things are different now. She's no longer his little girl who had ached to be popular, she had grown up sometime in the past few weeks into a half-person who could do miraculous things but doomed everything and everyone she touched.

She notices the frown worrying his strong features, notices how deeply lined his face has become the last few weeks. Everything that had happened to him and their family had been because of her and her powers. If only she isn't everything she is; if she was like everyone else, none of this would have happened. She wonders whether things would have been different if she'd gone to Paris just like Angela wanted; would Nathan have had to sacrifice himself to save his brother from taking millions of lives? Would Matt Parkman had been shot by Sylar and left to die on the streets of New York? What would their future have been like if Peter hadn't played the hero and saved her those weeks ago at Homecoming?

It's not your fault, Peter would have whispered, if he had been here with her.

But he was here because she could feel him – literally feel their connection pulsate through her veins and it comforts her, weirdly, oddly. Comforts her now even when she's not dreaming, this feeling of being with him so strong it physically hurts. His absence is a phantom pain of aching loneliness, because how could she miss a man she never really knew?

But does know him – did, and always will. Destiny and souls colliding in ether transcends time and space, or something along those lines. She's not really one for deep thinking and this one has her in knots, but she grasps the tendrils of truth as they're weaved in front of her and that's all that matters really.

She feels her dad staring, not a good thing to do when he has to keep one eye on the road and another on her. "Nothing." She lies, and it kills her to do it to him. Their family had lived through so many lies; everything in Claire's life had been a lie except for the most important truths. That her family and her dad loved her, and always will.

It isn't good to start a new life with lies. "Dad, I'm lying. There's something, but it's going to sound crazy."

She feels his smile and the sadness that permeates it. He's regretting that she's had to grow up so quickly, misses the giggly little girl who used to sit on his lap and beg for stories before bedtime. Misses the girl who baked cookies and force fed them to him, pouted if he didn't like them, the girl who practiced cheers in her brand new uniform and made team mascots from paper mache. But he's here and he's still her dad and that's all that matters in the end. "Try me."

There's a convenient diner up ahead and he winks at her, a tired wink but it does finally prompt a half-smile from her. "How about some breakfast? I could really use some coffee."

A fully fledged smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. She hears her stomach rumbling and recalls the last meal they had was in another almost identical wayside diner. She's lost of track of which state they're in. "Do I get pancakes?"

He pulls into the make shift parking lot which really is a patch of dirt by the side of the I95. "All the pancakes you can eat Claire-bear."

* * *

She's munching on her strawberry and blueberry pancakes like she's been starving for a month. Her dad watches her from the top of his third cup of coffee, his eyes probing and curious through his horn rimmed glasses. He's being respectful of what she wants to say and it's an odd feeling, because it's like he's interacting with her more as a person than as her dad. He's making every effort to put her at her ease. 

"I dream about him every night. Peter." Claire blurts between mouthfuls of pancakes, watching carefully for his reaction. She knows it sounds crazy and all kinds of stupid, but she knows it's the truth and its her turn to save the hero now. Truly save him and not just take a shard of glass out of his head, take a leap of faith because that's the only way he'll be saved. "I've been dreaming about him since …" She can't bring herself to say it, so she just washes down the pancakes with a huge gulp of coffee, the heat from it stinging her throat slightly before disappearing.

He sets his mug down on the vinyl tabletop carefully, peers deep into her eyes. "It's natural to dream of those who've been lost to us. But you're not talking about that, are you?" She shakes her head, not daring to speak. How to explain what she's feeling, what she's seen? What Peter has shown her, and how they're connected? "Claire?"

When she finally speaks, she can't look at him. No matter how understanding he is about this, she can't face his disbelief, his pity. He knows his daughter too well; she gets emotionally attached to things. When her rabbit died when she was 10 it had left her inconsolable for a week. She'd cried in her dad's arms every night and even when Lenny was buried in the garden she'd go out there sometimes and put flowers on his grave and sigh and be sad that rabbits couldn't live forever.

She can't look at another rabbit in a pet store without wanting to throw up.

So she averts her gaze, looks into sun rising from a dusty patchwork of browns and greens and talks haltingly, of what and who she's seen.

She barely notices the waitress come and refill their cups, but she must have because she talks and drinks from the same cup of coffee for what seems an eternity. Her mouth isn't dry from the talking but rather from anxiety about convincing her dad; he has to believe her. She's not strong enough to do this alone, she needs him. Needs her family to be there for her, for Peter and Nathan.

"So you think Nathan's still alive. And that Peter's somehow sending you these dreams to help you find them." She's glad he's not interrogating her like she's a crazy person, just evenly repeats her words like he was really considering their validity.

She sighs and there's more than a hint of bitterness. She's tired of this, so tired. "Sounds crazy, right?"

Her dad smirks and it too is filled with bitterness; he's being drawn back into the web of lies and deceit again and he knows it. Like father like daughter. "Not so much. When I was with the company, I'd heard of people with that ability. To alter other people's dreams. I think it's time you and I got over what we think is crazy and consider it reality."

"Then you believe me?" She can't help as hope fills her voice and pours into the void that Peter's absence has left behind. Her gaze slams into his and she hates all the hope that she's placing in this, this hope against all hope.

He nods, grimly, sadly, like he's regretting the chance for the new life they would have had as a family. She regrets it too, but it's a small price to pay for saving her heroes.

"But I don't know where to start."

"We'll figure it out Claire, together."

By the time they're back into the car and retracing their route back to New York, her dad has formed a plan. Somehow, she knew he would. That was what family means, to place unconditional trust and hope and love in each other. It's a wonderful feeling and for the first time since _it _happened, Claire has hope.

She can't emphasise how much that means to her right now.

"What's the plan?" If her tone is a tad too flippant, her dad's not going to call her on it. She feels the hope as it courses through her, feels Peter getting ever closer and it exhilarates her. Never mind that she has no idea how they're going to find him and Nathan. She's just glad that they're doing it, giving Peter and Nathan a chance just as they gave the world.

"We'll retrace our steps. We need to find Molly Walker. She's the only one who can help us track Peter and Nathan."

"Who's Molly Walker?" Her dad explains all about the tracking system, and in the spirit of their newfound trust and honesty, doesn't leave any details out. The thought of her dad being able to kill another person – a little girl no less – just to keep Claire safe is disconcerting to say the least, but she shunts it to the back of her mind and concentrates on the important things. He's willing to do anything for his family. Luckily he hadn't needed to kill Molly and for that Claire is glad. She can't live with another death on her hands.

They stop in yet another nondescript highway motel when everything gets too much for them. They'd taken turns driving like equals and not father and daughter but at midnight their gas is running low and neither can keep their eyes open enough to give safe driving a go.

Claire looks forward to the moment her head touches the pillow because she's certain of who she'll see in her dreams; she catches her dad giving her a look that's half filled with concern and worry and the other half something else, something indecipherable. She can't worry about that now because she's tired, so tired.

So she closes her eyes and dreams.

Truth, belief and fiction meld as one when she opens her eyes again. They're there in the field of greens and golds. She turns and smiles, Peter's smirking at her through bangs falling haphazardly over handsome features. "You're here."

"Of course I am." She takes his hand and they stroll through the field. The sun's not as bright this time, nor the field as full of kaleidoscopic colour but she hardly notices the pallor of the landscape, because it's so wonderful being with him. "You knew I'd be."

"Yes, I did." His smirk is more smile now; she sees relief and happiness in those deep, dark eyes. "I wanted to show you more of this place."

They stop and he points and suddenly they're standing underneath a raised wooden bridge. She's been here a few times now and she's never seen this bridge; but she just shakes her head. It's a dream, this is all a dream. Anything can happen in dreams, right? "What is this place?"

"Somewhere beautiful." He's looking at her with his eyes full, but she doesn't blush or anything silly because it isn't like that, they're not about _that _in a place like this. Reality and dream is colliding in her head and she knows suddenly that she's meant to sift specks of reality from the dreamscape before her.

The realisation floors her. "Peter, are you showing me where you are?"

He doesn't answer. Instead he starts strolling onto the bridge; her hands feel empty without his in them. She follows blindly, needing to see and touch and feel him, but he's walking too quickly now and she can't quite follow, he's eluding her no matter how fast she runs. "Peter!" She cries and he turns, more silhouette now than actual person.

"I know you'll find me."

"But I don't know – I don't know any of this!" She wants to cling to him, tell him he hasn't shown her enough, not nearly enough. Blue skies, green grass, fields of bright golds and reds and whites aren't going to cut it on a map, and she needs him to be her hero, one last time.

But he's a speck in the distance now. She calls and cries and shrieks at the top of her lungs, but he can't hear her. He can't hear her now, and she sinks to her knees, inconsolable and helpless.

It's only when her tears dry that she notices the grainy feel of sand worrying her shins and calf. Wooden planks had dissolved into beautiful, soft white sand; so pure that the glare from the sun's reflection hurts her eyes. She scoops a handful and watches as they pour out of her grasp; suddenly realises that's what dreams are. Tenuous moments of truth so precious they're impossible to hold onto for very long.

Sand. Wind. Wooden bridges against azure blue skies. Fields of green and gold, red and white.

He's showing her the way to him, and she's going to figure it out now matter what.


	3. Part Three

**Part Three **

Her dad's kind enough to not elude to her dream (or was it a nightmare?) the next morning, a dream that ended with her screaming at the tope of her lungs. She hadn't known she was crying until her dad gently wiped the tears off her face and she'd collapsed into his arms, needing to feel safe. This was what dads were for, this was why family was so important.

Claire feels like she's aged 10 years in the last few weeks.

They're on the road again after a less than stellar breakfast. If Claire doesn't see another plate of bacon and eggs in her life she can live with it.

It's been four days since it happened and they're still a good day of driving out of New York. Her dad's been trying to get a hold of a guy called Mohinder Suresh who'd agreed to hide Molly from anyone that tried to find her. Unfortunately her dad had been a little too good instructing Mohinder; so far he hadn't been able to reach them. But he thinks they're still in New York, which is why they're heading back into the proverbial lion's den.

"Why would they still be there?"

"Molly wouldn't want to leave before knowing Matt Parkman was out of the woods." Never mind that Molly was a kid who apparently needs Mohinder Suresh to take care of her, to stay alive even. She gets the feeling from her dad though that Mohinder would do anything for that little girl. She hopes so; Peter's and Nathan's lives depend on it.

"Why?"

"Matt saved her. She –" His voice hitches and she sees something – something – indecipherable. But she can't quite make it out. "She called him her other hero. I don't think she'd leave New York without finding out whether he's okay."

"Matt saved her?"

"From Sylar." Claire suddenly feels so much closer to the girl, and to Matt. She remembers his kind eyes and the way he knew her thoughts even before she spoke them. She feels close to the girl because she understands what it's like to do anything for her hero. She's glad Matt stopped her dad from doing the unspeakable to Molly in Claire's name.

"I can relate." She settles in for the long road ahead. The steady clickety-clack of wheels on hard gravel-paved road lulls her to sleep – unintentionally of course, but it does and when she stirs, the sun's so bright she knows she's dreaming.

Her eyes are closed but she feels him next to her. They're lying side by side in that field of green, faces keening towards the clear blue sky. Claire smiles and knows that Peter's lying with his head propped behind his head, feels his crooked grin as he laps in the sun and wind rifling through his hair. It's untidy and he doesn't bother brushing his bangs back, just lets it be and she feels that freedom.

He turns to her, so close she can feel his breath tingling her skin. "I like this." He says simply, whatever 'this' is. And she can relate, because she likes it too.

Loves it rather, because they have no cares here, no worries or concerns. They're just Peter and Claire and she brushes away the guilty thought of her dad being excluded from this tryst. It's not that she doesn't care deeply about him, of course she does. But this is their thing, and she's selfishly holding onto it like there's no tomorrow.

And perhaps there is no tomorrow, and this is all they'll ever have. Her throat tightens at the very thought.

"There is a tomorrow you know." Peter whispers into her ear. He can read her thoughts and connects two and two together; Peter has Matt's ability; she has to remember that when she finds him.

"You can read my thoughts." She says with hushed horror, remembering their last conversation in the parking garage before she had foolishly run away from him. He nods, smile faltering at her stricken look. "You heard me –"

"Hey." He brushes tendrils of golden hair off her face, traces the frown lines that mar her complexion. His touch soothes her, lets her know that everything's okay. "I know you trust me. I should've trusted you."

She shakes her head, reaching for him unconsciously and grabs onto his arm. "No, you were right. Nathan – you loved Nathan and trusted him. You were right."

"We were both right." Is all Peter says as he gives her a chaste kiss, holding her to him.

They don't say anything for a while, they don't need to. It's what she treasures about these dreams of theirs, these moments of crystalline perfection that transcend reality.

"Where are you?" She shatters the silence. When she looks up at him it's darker, they're bathed in the orange glow of dusk and the wind whips their hair. It's no longer a gentle rippling breeze but something stronger, something much more terrifying. "Peter?"

His dark eyes meets hers, strong and calm. "I'm not sure whether I can do this much longer." At the panic rising in her eyes, he smiles again, softly, gently. "I'm not very good at this."

"Can't you just tell me where you are?"

He shakes his head sadly, averting her eyes. "Claire – I don't know where I am." That almost shatters her right there. She's been grasping onto the hope that these dreams will lead her straight to him, but they won't because he doesn't even know himself. She feels the dying embers of hope smoulder in death throes but then he speaks and her faith bursts into life anew. "But I know you'll find me."

"But how?" She cries brokenly. They're having the same conversation over and over and it's a painful déjà vu that smites her insides with ice.

He points silently. They're lying in the field of green and gold but now the wooden bridge appears, and over the crest of the bridge she sees – a lighthouse. It's not spectacular and to her untrained eyes there's nothing distinguishable about it, it's red and white with a watch tower and a small cottage in front. Strong winds whip their hair and her words get bitten off and carried away almost as soon as they're out of her mouth.

"I'll find you Peter."

Sand. Wind. Wooden bridges against azure blue skies. Fields of green and gold, red and white. A lighthouse, framed by the orange glow of dusk.

He's near the sea, the ocean. He's near water. Then it dawns on her. He's showing her things he saw on his flight to save the world. His last memories before everything faded to black and he wants – no needs – her to find him. So they can find Nathan.

* * *

It's completely dark when they roll into the bustling streets of Manhattan from the Holland Tunnel. Claire's stomach is rumbling and it's like she hasn't done anything in the last few days but drive, eat and sleep. The radio's on softly in the background; instead of music it's all current affairs and news. She thinks she catches WNYC-FM but isn't sure in her fuzzy state.

Once again her dad's failed to wake her up to take her turn, which makes her alternately annoyed but grateful. He's not being consistent with the treating her like equals thing. One minute he's believing her crazy story of Peter dreaming to her and the next he's taking it upon himself to give her more sleep. But she guesses that's what people are at their core, inconsistent. But if they're true friends or family you love them anyway.

"I'm sorry, I must've fallen asleep. Are we there yet?" She says it before catching herself, the familiar whine of kids the world over unable to be suppressed in time. It makes him smile though, which is good.

"Almost. We should get some food first, before we go to the hospital."

It's soon clear why he insisted on getting food. What her dad meant by going to the hospital actually meant staking it out for a good few hours, as he explains to her when they dig into burgers, fries and sodas. "I don't know whether Parkman will be monitored. Linderman and Thompson's deaths probably threw them into chaos, but I can't be sure. We shouldn't risk it until we know for certain."

He finally tells her then as they wait in the car munching away at their greasy burgers of the company and all they've done over the years, as far as he knows anyway. People with abilities and tagging and locating them, from the mundane to the bizarre. All this craziness and she had been part of it all, however unknowingly.

"Dad – there used to be a man that came over a lot. He'd just disappear into thin air I think – I don't know, I used to think he was imaginary. Was he – was he real?"

"You remember him?" He sounds surprised, but glad. "That was Claude sweetie. He's the one – he gave you your first teddy bear from around the world. Don't you remember?"

"He gave me Millie?" Millie was almost as old as Claire was. "So, his power's invisibility?"

Her dad nods through mouthfuls. "I'm not sure how, but he ran into Peter. That's how Peter absorbed invisibility."

Everything's starting to make sense now and she knows with even more certainty than before how connected they all are. She and Peter, Peter and Nathan, she and her dad and Claude and Peter and back to Nathan again – they're all connected. Everyone one of them, bound by invisible tethers that will never let them go, not ever.

Peter was right. It's destiny, and it had taken her so long to realise just how wonderful that was.

She's about to tell her dad this when she spies two figures walking towards them. One tall and one shorter, much, more shorter. The gait of a scared, tentative little girl. "Dad, look."

He turns and soon the figures focus into view. It's a tall handsome Indian man with a tiny waif of a girl, both sweaty, tired and withdrawn. Her dad motions them to get in and with no further ado they collapse into the back seat, the man's breathing heaving and tired.

"How did you know we were here?" Her dad asks but his question's met with exasperation from the Indian man as he glances at the little girl. She can only guess this is Mohinder Suresh and the small girl Molly. His wide dark eyes turns to Claire in the dim light, acknowledgement passes through him in a flash.

"Molly. She wanted to make sure everyone was safe." Claire spins and smiles softly at the girl, who smiles shyly back. There's something breakable about her and Claire aches to protect her the way she wants to be protected.

Everything's connected, she hears Peter's voice in her head. And maybe they've always been and she's only just realised it.

"You're Molly?" The girl nods and Claire's eyes crinkle fully into a smile. She can't help it, the small girl's touching her heart and she feels close to her, the same closeness she felt when she first learned of her from her dad. "How's Matt?"

Molly sighs sadly as Mohinder answers for her. "Still not awake. His wife's with him now though."

"Is he being watched?" Her dad asks with concern, peering into shadows as if expecting to see figures leaping out of them any second.

"Not sure. I haven't seen anyone yet."

"You're risking your life and hers you know, every single time you walk in there." Her dad says pointedly. It's harsh but it's the truth.

Mohinder's gaze meets her dads, then hers, imploring. "I know. But what can I do? He risked his life to save ours, and Molly –" He looks down at the small girl who's now nestled in his arms. "Molly needs to know her hero's safe. I can't deny her that."

"You're my hero too." She says sweetly to Mohinder, and Claire can't but help be touched by her sincerity. Molly's providing a perfect echo of her thoughts of Peter and it's comforting to know there's someone else like her in the world, someone with a hero who needs saving.

Claire looks as the little girl starts drifting off to sleep; she looks weary and exhausted, more tired than someone her age has a right to look. Her eyes meet her dad's in the dim light that emanates from the fluorescent brilliance of the hospital. She doesn't have the heart to deny Molly her safety cocoon of sleep.

Saving Peter is the most important thing in her life right now but not at the expense of Molly. And so they let the little girl sleep, dreaming the dreams of a child, tired and protected by the adults around her.


	4. Part Four

**Part Four**

She ends up sharing a room with Molly because sometime between the hospital and the hotel it's been decided it's best if Molly have a female roommate. Claire wants to laugh at the absurdity of propriety at a time like this, but obviously her dad and Mohinder take their responsibilities as protectors seriously. 

"Good night Claire." Molly is sweet and trusting, despite everything that's happened to her. When Molly was in the bathroom Mohinder told Claire in hushed tones what he'd gathered of her past. Her parents had been murdered by Sylar, who had almost murdered her if not for Matt Parkman saving her just in time. Molly has a talent of finding anyone anywhere in the world; Claire understands now why Molly is such a sought after commodity. 

Commodity, like she was a thing. Even her dad had wanted to destroy this little girl for her ability, but Claire knows better. Molly isn't the sum of her talents; she's the sum of what makes her a person, a living breathing girl. Her ability is just one small piece that makes her who she is, she isn't a what but a who. 

She hears snippets of Mohinder's conversation with her dad in the connecting room. About how Niki, DL and Micah Sanders had headed off in one direction, Mohinder and Molly the other. They'd split up to increase the chances of a quick getaway, agreeing to contact each other once they were safe. Claire can't quite match the faces with the names; she's vaguely aware there were others at Kirby Plaza along with them but her awareness is filled only with those who matters to her. Her dad, Peter, Nathan. No one else matters. 

She looks into the face of the trusting little girl, sees contentment in her eyes. She needs to ask, just once. Brushing her dark hair off her delicate face, Claire asks softly. "Sweetie, can I ask you to do something for me?" 

Big eyes, so wide and innocent. Had Claire ever been like this? Was this why her dad had risked so much to protect her? "You want me to find someone?" 

Molly's directness unnerves her. Her calm acceptance of only being wanted – needed – f for her power almost makes Claire cry, but she isn't about to cry yet. Instead she nods, leans forward and murmurs softly. "Yes. Can you?" A smidgen of her desperation leaks from her voice, no matter how hard she's trying to keep it in. She doesn't want to frighten Molly with her intensity, but knowing how close she is to finding, no saving Peter, makes her control dissolve. 

Molly nods, smiles her big, bright smile. "I can. Because I like you." 

Her trust makes Claire's heart break and suddenly a flash appears before her eyes, of a trusting little boy of raven-haired innocence looking up to his much older, stronger brother. 

She understands a little now, of Peter's unbreakable trust in Nathan. Understands how Peter's trust really did save the world; Nathan's resolve at the last minute only prompted by Peter's expectation that Nathan would in the end help his little brother save the day. 

_Sometimes we are who we're expected to be. _

Words carry faintly inside the room, but there's no wind. They're indoors, the windows aren't open because it's a freezing almost-winter night in New York, but she hears them, plain as day. Are these Peter's words, or Nathan's? Or Peter's memories of Nathan as they flew up into the stratosphere, the blinking lights of Manhattan growing ever fainter in the distance? 

"Claire?" Molly's words jerk her back and she smiles reassuringly. It's hard being scattered when someone's there, looking up to her. "Who do you want me to find?" 

"I –" How to describe Peter? How to describe him in a few short sentences when he already means so, so much? And then she knows. "I need you to find my hero." 

Molly's eyes widen in delight "You have a hero too?" 

Claire nods, tears welling in her eyes. She doesn't bother brushing them away, to do so would be to deny the truth of all things. "I do. He's – he saved me." 

"Did he save you from the bogeyman?" Molly asks in hushed worry, and Claire doesn't know how to respond. 

"Yes Molly, he did." Claire spins at Mohinder behind her, shadowed by her dad. She looks guilty but Mohinder's smiling gently, so she takes it as his tacit okay to keep pressing Molly for help. "He saved her from the bogeyman." 

Molly's eyes dance in delight; crinkles with wonder. She stretches her hand out silently and Mohinder hands her a giant Atlas and thumb tack. 

Now it's Claire's turn to watch in wonder as Molly closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. Mohinder unconsciously takes the girl's hand and the beauty of their closeness is breathtaking to watch. There's a few tense seconds as she steadies herself, then her eyes pop open to stare straight into Claire's. "Tell me about him." 

Claire does, haltingly, with feeling. She feels her dad's eyes on her, would have felt awkward describing Peter in hushed and intimate tones any other time, but somehow this is right. She doesn't know how Molly's gift works but she figures the more accurate the description, the better. She doesn't even know whether Molly needs anything other than Peter's name but she pours her heart out anyway, just in case. 

She doesn't want to leave anything to chance when it comes to Peter's life. 

Molly's hand shakes a while before she flips the pages. It takes a surprisingly short time for her hand to land squarely and surely. They peer curiously at the atlas, Claire perhaps more desperate than the others. 

East Fire Island, just off the coast of Long Island. It's not even that far away, as far as she can tell from the map. Just a little way out of New York. 

"How do we get there?" Is all Claire wants to know, and possibly how long that would take. Time is against Peter and Nathan and they need to move on this, now. 

"Whoa, we need to at least wait until daylight." Her dad's ever the voice of reason but he seems unreasonable now. Sure the colour of the sky is midnight opalescence and it's way past midnight but should they really be concerns right now? Peter's out there – on East Fire Island, wherever that is – probably freezing to death and they're going to wait until light because – why? 

"Why?" 

"Because there's probably no safe way of getting there in the dark." Mohinder reasons and now it's two against one. "Your father's right, we have to wait." 

"We can wait until dawn, but we should be there when the sun rises." She's not going to take no for an answer and strength permeates her now, and purpose. Molly's told them where Peter is and the knowledge fuels her, so much so she grabs her coat and is reaching for the car keys before anyone has the presence of mind to stop her. 

"Claire-bear." Her dad's hand lands on hers softly as she grabs the car keys off the table. Molly's looking on in confusion and Mohinder sits beside her on a chair watching a family drama unfold. "You can't do this alone." 

"I don't want to." She looks up into her dad's eyes – quite a ways up really – and pleads silently for help. She doesn't want to admit that she really, truly does need it. It doesn't matter that her pride's shred to pieces because there's something so much more important, waiting for her. Peter. "Please dad. Please." 

He sighs only once before grabbing his coat and the complimentary map of New York State they'd picked up at a gas station a day ago. Looks once at Mohinder before he turns to go, saying in his wake. "Wait for us. We'll be back to find Nathan. Protect _her _with your life." 

The nod Mohinder gives her dad leaves no room for doubt he's going to indeed do just that, protect Molly with his life. 

* * *

Claire's glad she hasn't underestimated the chill as she wraps her coat around her. It's almost winter after all and they're standing at the Bay Shore Marina waiting for the first ferry. She looks at her dad huddled under the shelter by the side of the marina; he's busy reading a pamphlet about Fire Island of all things. "What are you doing?" She's curious at why he's so interested in all the tourist attractions there. 

"I don't know anything about Fire Island." He's not being very forthcoming in the chill and she has to prod him for more. 

"Why's that important?" 

"Because, do you have any idea how to get there, or what to expect?" 

They finally board the first ferry to Fire Island when it's still dark. She wonders whether Molly's dreaming away in her warm bed; she wonders whether Peter misses Claire in their dreams. She hasn't slept for what seems like quite a while, but then she remembers it was only earlier last night the New York lights jolted her awake as they drove into the city. 

It's her turn to read the pamphlet now and it's pretty interesting, as far as a way to while away the time goes and to keep her mind off Peter, potentially freezing in the open next to the Atlantic. Fire Island, it turns out, is really one long barrier island made up of small communities dotted along the narrow stretch of land. A casual conversation struck up by her dad with a fellow passenger is all that's needed to discover how exactly to get to East Fire Island, which is uninhabited and accessible only by boat. It's an important detail and one she surely would have missed, once again she's glad her dad's here to take care of her and Peter. 

The sun's up and the rest of the world's awake by the time they conclude their trip. Suddenly they're here and she has no idea what to do next. Luckily her dad walks confidently down the gangplank, his eyes searching for someone willing to hire their boat out for the day. 

While he's looking Claire's gaze is caught by a sight that hitches her voice and snatches her breath away. 

She sees the field of green and gold. It's almost winter so it's nowhere near as colourful as it had been in their dreams – in fact, not showing much colour beyond chill green and greys, soft sand blanketing the ground – but she knows it's _the _place just the same. She sees the wooden bridge rolling off into the distance, sunken trees unfurling from beneath to just grasp on ankles. The sky's clear and the wind whips her hair; it's cold but not uninviting. The smell of the sea stings her nostrils but she's glad of it, because now she knows he's really and truly here. 

"Claire?" Her dad's noticed her pursuit of unreality and she responds dreamily to him that she'll be right back, but hardly cares whether he hears her or not. She knows this is the place, knows the feeling in her bones, even if they regenerate and quickly tell her she's crazy. 

But she's not crazy. She turns and knows for sure it's real, everything's real and the feeling infuses her with enough warmth to last a lifetime. 

She knows with certainty worthy of a thousand lifetimes when she sees the lighthouse. The lighthouse of her dreams, rising up at the crest of a green hill, red and white in the morning sun. It's a beacon of hope, clichéd and cheesy as that sounds. If everything from her dreams are real, then surely Peter's real too? 

Her dad catches up and follows her eager gaze to the lighthouse. Reads the silly pamphlet he's still holding. "That's the Fire Island Lighthouse." He says dumbly while Claire's transfixed, entirely breathless from her discovery but he mistakes that for the cold, so he hustles her way from the wind to wait while he finds a boat for them. 

She shrugs his hold away not unkindly as they make their way back to the pier. She has to make him understand – he has to understand that this is the place where she's going to find Peter – where _they're _going to find Peter. Her dad's followed Peter's trail of broken dreams this far and somehow it's important for him to know that the hope they seek is as real and as tangible as Claire's dad is to her. 

She turns and gazes at that lighthouse once more, pulls him short even though he towers over her and capable of bodily lifting her out of the cold. "Dad, this is the place." 

He squints because the glare from the sun is that strong; it's the chill sun of the coming winter but the glare still makes both their eyes hurt. "What place?" 

She explains haltingly and finally he understands why she's so transfixed by everything. His gaze isn't patronising nor sympathetic, it's a mixture of pity and hope for the little girl he's lost. He doesn't say anything but Claire knows he understands, and that's all that matters. 

It takes a while for her dad to conclude negotiations with a happy enough looking amateur fisherman who'd rather take the cash than spend another windy day out on the foreshore. Claire pretends not to wince at the smell of rotting fish at the bottom of the boat or react to the squishy wetness as she steps into it. Her dad cranks the engine, propelling them into the open water. 

She catches the intensity in his eyes and it strikes her then, how lucky she is to have him. Not once in the past few days as he made her doubt her own sanity about this insane mission of hers to save Peter. She's only a 16 year old girl after all; he could just as easily have stripped her notions bare and shown her the desperation that had driven her here, shown her the guilt that plagues her for Nathan's death. 

But instead he's silent and resolute, and the only conversation they make is small talk because they're both so tense, and cold. He's motoring them along and the spray hits her full in the face because she's planted herself at the front, but she doesn't mind too much because it means she's that much closer to saving her hero. 

"Thanks dad." She says quietly, and somehow she can't say more. She hopes he understands. 

He does. "You're my daughter Claire. I'll do anything for you." 

It's a short trip to East Fire Island because apparently it's only about a few miles away, and there isn't too much of the island itself. It's a fraction of the size of Fire Island and people use it mainly for hiking, camping and other recreational activities that has never interested Claire. She hopes – naively perhaps – that they're close to finding Peter, and can't help the thought that by the end of the day he'll be safe and sound. 

But her hope is short lived, because they've traipsed through the island twice already with no sign of anything, let alone a man who had exploded and landed with fiery intensity in the middle of this piece of rock. They've seen plenty of trees and poison ivy, enough for Claire to expertly recognise them because apparently they're the big danger out in these parts. 

They're tired, and hungry, and she has to see the hope waning in her dad's eyes. "I don't want to hear it." 

"You have to." He spins her around and they have a ludicrous stare off, a six foot something tall man against a girl barely five foot. "We're searched this placed twice. He isn't here." 

"He is." She's being obstinate but not without good cause. Molly said Peter was here, and here's where she has to believe Peter is. Nothing else matters and besides, if the organisation her dad worked for believed Molly was a tracking system, she has to be accurate, right? Claire has to trust and hope because it's all she's been living on since _it _happened, trust and hope and family and love, because they're the most important things in the world. 

"We can go back to the shore. Get a late lunch. We'll have enough time to come back." Her dad's being the voice of reason, she knows it but Claire's reluctant to leave. She suspects that once ashore there's no guarantee they'll return, and she doesn't want to risk giving up the only chance she'll have to save Peter. 

"Just one more time Dad. Please?" She knows she's batting her eyelashes and pouting shamelessly, but reasons it's all for a good cause. It seems ludicrous to think Peter's life could be hanging in the balance and they give up on their search because of a little thing called food. 

But even Claire's hope dwindles as they search fruitlessly around the small island, poison ivy, trees, dirt and dust mingling as they all start looking the same. "Claire." Her dad says and it's not even a question. 

She cries when they climb wearily back into the boat – dinghy really, why sugar coat the truth anymore – and she glares at the sun now skirting the horizon. The days are getting shorter as the fall draws to a close and she suddenly finds herself hating it, hating the short days and stupid dreams and why couldn't Peter have been clearer about his location? If he wants to play the damsel in the distress that's fine; there's no reason to be cryptic and make Claire feel bad about it. 

Her dad doesn't even try to strike up conversation as they hurtle back to the main island. Claire's tired and drained and crushed and that doesn't even begin to describe her feelings at the moment. She wants to wring someone's neck and suspects that because her dad's the closest person she'll end up taking it out on him. 

They have a quiet dinner through which Claire sits silently fuming. She fumes at the freshly baked bread rolls the kindly owner places in front of them, scowls at the fish soup and loses her appetite when the mains roll around. She should be out there, trying to find him. Instead she's safe and warm and because she is, it's just not right. 

So she forms a plan – a desperate, not altogether logical plan – but she doesn't have a choice. Peter died to save her once and she wouldn't be half the person he is if she at least can't try to do the same. She bides her time, endures her dad's worried glances and follows him obediently to a rented cabin on the outskirts of town. 

Waits until he goes to the bathroom, then swipes the keys to the boat (dingy) and races to begin her search for Peter anew. 

Unfortunately he's too smart for her and just as she winces at the tell-tale squeak of the door he looms behind her, firelight casting eerie reflections off his glasses. "You didn't think I was going to fall for that, did you?" He doesn't sound angry, just tired. She at least manages to look contrite but she's not sorry; she's defiant because she's doing what has to be done. 

He sighs, grabs his coat and demands the keys from her. "Next time you want to sneak out, remember I did this for a living for 14 years. You're going to have to do a lot better than that." 

It's all he ends up saying from the cabin to the dingy. the motor revs up and they're heading back to the tiny little chunk of rock again. The wind's so much more bitter now that the sun has set and even with an extra scarf and hat it's cold and wintry. She doesn't shy away though; the thought of Peter lying in this salty wasteland is enough to light her insides on fire with desperation. So she doesn't blanch at the vast emptiness around her; remains stoic even though every muscle in her body's wailing with exhaustion. 

Claire doesn't know how searching in the dark will increase their chances of finding Peter, but she knows it – in her bones, in her everywhere – that she needs to do this. As they approach and she sees looming midnight silhouettes of towering pines and rocky inlets, she finally discovers why. 

She spies them first as lights twinkling not quite merrily; flashes that could perhaps have been small camp fires if not for one thing. They're blinking like a torch being switched on and off, but the light is all wrong. It's an orangey, static-y glow and reminds her of tiny explosions of flame – like firecrackers on the fourth of July. 

They're small but incandescent and she's fascinated by it, so she motions for her dad to get closer. He voices concern about coming too close to the rocks but suddenly Claire knows – she _feels _why she's here, alone with her dad in the middle of this watery desert searching for her lost hero. 

Seek for ye shall find and she finally knows what that passage in the bible means, because attached to the glow is a shadow, a suggestion of a whisper of a man – nestled against a rocky outcrop at the very farthest end of the tiny island. 

"Peter!" She screams and without thinking – without doing much of anything else really – she jumps over the side and half-swims, half-runs to the source of the flickering glow. She's small so it takes her almost an eternity and a half to get to shore, the steady swish-slosh of the bottom half of her body struggling through increasingly shallow water. 

But finally – _finally ­_– she's there. 

Peter's lying against a rock outcrop almost entirely covered with everything that has no place on a human being. Bits of shrubs, leaves, seaweed, and that's only what Claire sees in the microsecond between the time she sees him clearly and when she's by his side. She probably took a hell of a lot longer than a few seconds to struggle to his side but all she remembers afterwards is that she's not there and then she is, holding his limp head just above the water. 

He's still, so still and even in the almost absolute darkness Claire can see he's the very picture of death warmed over. She cradles his head as the waves lap against them, hating the cold clamminess of his skin against hers. She runs her hands over his body, trying to check for signs – of any sign – that he's alive and he hears her, but he just lies there, motionless. She brushes detritus off him and gasps in anger at the state of his formerly fair skin. 

He's blanketed with sores and scars up and down his arms, legs and torso, every part of skin exposed to the cruel vagaries of the elements and fate. His handsome face's criss-crossed with angry red gashes and sores; radiation burns she thinks but she can't question that now. Once silky hair's matted with congealed blood and seaweed and goodness knows what else, but the one thing that catches her attention awes her, because it's only then that she understands about destiny and the universe and everything Peter believes in with his whole heart and soul, even when they're half dead. 

Peter's hands are glowing, the way they did when he first absorbed Ted Sprague's powers. The glow is what she'd seen from the boat, the glow from his hands were beacons of light guiding her to him. 

She'll be fascinated by what this means later but right now she needs to know he's still alive. She says his name in increasingly frenzied rhythm until it finally crescendos into hysteria. She's too young to be strong and she needs him to be her hero. Tears don't struggle down her face because they're now allowed to run free; she's not going to try taming them in this watery hell. 

Then suddenly she hears a splash, a croak, then a long, painful wheeze. "You found me." His eyes open and they're looking directly into hers, piercing in the sudden light. The moon's unveiled her ghostly light and Claire can see Peter's face now, pale and charred even in the darkness. 

"I found you." 

"I knew you would." Is all Peter says as his eyes flutter close and he shudders twice. Before her very eyes she sees why the Haitian man had called her healing a gift from God; it truly is because she sees its magic work on Peter. Gradually the sores and burns dissipate and his skin mends itself anew, the scars scatter like ashes in the wind. If he's still looking pale and dirty it's okay, because his breathing is returning and she can feel the rise and fall of his chest as she cradles him against her. She leans over until her head's resting gently on his chest; she delights in the steady pitter-patter of his heart. 

By the time her dad manages to manoeuvre the boat (dingy) close enough for them both to half pull, half drag Peter into it, her hero is whole again, if in body only. Claire's glad for that miracle at least; she isn't going to be taking anything to do with Peter's rescue for granted. 

As they motor away into the deep, dark night, Claire looks down and gasps. Peter's hands have finally stop emitting that strange glow. It flickers once more before it crackles, withers and dies. 


	5. Part Five

**Part Five **

Claire doesn't think twice about stripping Peter's dank and dirty clothes off his sodden body. She wants him in front of the roaring fire as quickly as possible and she gets quite angry when her dad lays a cautioning arm on her.

"Claire." It's only when she hears the amused warning in his voice that she realises she's about to pull Peter's trousers off. In any other situation she would've blushed and giggled like a high school girl but she doesn't. Firstly because of the obvious and secondly because she doubts she's anything like a typical high school girl anymore.

Her only concession to propriety is a wry smile, followed by terse instructions. "We should put him in front of the fire. He's freezing."

"I know." Her dad's more amused than concerned now that she's stopped undressing her uncle (ew, it's not like _that_). He kneels next to Peter with two huge bath towels he'd taken from the bathroom and starts drying him off, all the while keeping a wary eye on his wayward daughter.

"He needs to get out of those wet clothes." Claire sounds just like her mom right now but she doesn't care.

She almost can't see her dad's expression because the firelight's bouncing off his glasses but hears the exasperation in his tone anyway. "I know Claire." He tosses a towel at her, motioning to their lone bathroom. "You should see about getting yourself dried off. You're dripping all over the carpet."

"I need to make sure he's okay." Claire can be obstinate when she wants to be. It's something she learned from her dad and although they're not related by blood she's every bit his daughter in this respect.

"Peter will be fine. Your power probably helped him quite a bit."

"But he's still wet."

"So are you."

"I'll be fine. I can't catch cold, remember?"

There's an odd beat, and her dad sighs. "I'm just worried about our deposit."

She throws the towel back at him then regrets it the next second because she _is _wet and her shoes and socks are soaked. Every step she takes she makes uncomfortable squishing sounds that only ends when she yanks the offending articles of clothing off.

When she steps in the shower and sees the thick curtain of steam rise before her, she worries how Peter's going to feel when he finally wakes up. It's odd that she doesn't care how he survived the explosion or the fall from the sky or how he ended up where he had; she just wants to know he's okay.

When she comes out of the bathroom Claire does feel a lot better, or a lot warmer at least. Her dad's kneeling next to Peter's limp body, one hero has dragged the other directly in front of the hearth and the flames now crackle merrily in the stillness.

A cloud of steam accompanies her entrance, thick and warm enough to alert her dad to her presence. "He's fine, he's sleeping." He wryly pre-empts her melodramatic concern and she has to smile grudgingly; he's got a point because she has been more than slightly obsessed about finding Peter over the last few days.

"Thanks." She can't say anything more because she's so content and tired now and seeing the steady rise and fall of Peter's chest bared in the firelight oddly relaxes her. Comfort and warmth permeate the room and all Claire wants to do is sleep and dream.

Her dad eyes her weary form, nods to her slumbering hero. "You should go to sleep Claire-bear. Get some rest. You deserve it." His voice hitches slightly then, something's caught in his throat and anyone who's not his daughter wouldn't notice, but she does. "You saved a man's life tonight. I'm so proud of you."

She hears the fierce pride in his voice and it sings to her exhausted heart, but all she can do is stand on her tip-toes and kiss her dad's cheek as she pads wordlessly past him to the bedroom.

* * *

She has an uncomfortable few hours full of blankness and it doesn't makes sense. It's only when she jolts awake in the midnight darkness and pads out of her room that she realises why the blankness was so disconcerting. 

She hasn't dreamed for the first time since _it _happened; it's the first time Peter hasn't graced her dreams with his living presence, the first time she's been alone since the darkness that enveloped her like a glove that fateful night.

The realisation is bittersweet because finding him last night probably means a stop to their dreams together and she regrets that. It's selfish but she can't help the way she feels; a part of her enjoyed the time together, liked the feel of their connection pulsate through her veins like a living, breathing thing.

She goes to check on him but he isn't by the fireplace. For a moment her heart stops in panic and hysteria crawls through her insides until she hears the shower in the bathroom. Claire breathes again until she hears a sudden crack, something that sounds like an explosion but can't really be; until she remembers Peter's only one of two people in the world who actually _can _explode.

She rushes to the door but an awful, haunting scream stops her short. It's so full of primal rage and fury, hurt and pain and loss and of so much more she can't describe; her heart trembles at the pathetic fury locked inside that scream.

She doesn't think, just bursts through the door and never mind Peter may be entirely naked in the shower. The potential embarrassment's worth it only to know he's okay. She won't mind being the butt of all future family jokes, if only Peter is all right.

But he isn't. She finds him cowering in the bathtub, she can't quite see his face because his back's half turned, pale and glistening in fluorescent light. He huddles, head in his hands; wet tendrils obscure his face but Claire can _feel _his unending pain. Feel it wafting from him; the stench of it almost makes her gag.

Streaks of red on the wall just above his head catches her eye and she gasps; it's like the very walls are weeping blood along with Peter's anguish. The tiles are cracked and broken and even without checking his hands she knows what she heard before was her hero trying to shatter his pain by slamming already broken fists through the wall. The thought of his torment almost brings her to her knees but she doesn't buckle, not yet.

Because the shower is still running; she winces as the jet of water hits her when she moves to turn it off. It's scalding hot and she doesn't know whether he did it deliberately or not, tried to scorch the guilt right out of his soul. His skin's blistering but it heals almost immediately in her presence.

Claire crosses to him on shaky legs. She's not equipped to deal with this. Peter's the caring one in their dysfunctional biological family and she has Nathan's ruthlessness running thick through her veins. She's also a 16 year old girl who only a few short weeks ago was practicing cheers out in the open sunshine and she shouldn't have to deal with any of this, heroes and villains and real and adoptive dads and an uncle who lies broken before her.

She can't do this, but she will because Peter needs her. It takes almost an eternity to get to him, yet another one to gingerly crawl into the tub and she endures the scalding hot water on her arms as she turns the shower off. She kneels softly in front of him with downcast eyes, tries to catch his gaze but he's not there, not really. He's trapped in his own private hell and it's not even a dream or nightmare; Claire's can't reach him.

"Peter." She whispers; she doesn't know what else to say. She's never seen anyone like this before and it frightens her more than she cares to admit. She wants to cower but she can't, she won't. Because it's Peter and he's her hero and if there's one thing she's learned from all the craziness of the last few weeks it's that the world only gets saved when limits are tested and pushed. Nothing, not even the future, is written in stone.

She shakes him ever so gently. She's genuinely frightened he'll shatter but she chances it anyway. Her gambit works because he shudders once, twice before the fog in hazel orbs clear and suddenly he's back, the handsome stranger who had rushed to her rescue and saved her from ultimate evil.

His eyes are clear now but they're anguished; Claire feels his guilt, remorse, agony, grief and everything else she can't quite name roll off him. Wave after wave assaults her but she stands still and resolute, a rock in a fiery, tormented storm.

Suddenly he breaks; shatters and crumbles like a statue made of sand. He's still wet and soaked from his shower and tears that start off trickling down his handsome face soon melt into rivers of free flowing guilt and agony; Claire's helpless to do anything but watch and be witness to the breaking of a kind and gentle man.

Finally she gathers all her tendrils of courage and draws him to her, strokes his hair as he clings to her. It's tentative and feather light at first then he's grabbing and leaning against her with increasing desperation, weeping and sobbing into her neck. He rests on her shoulders and he's shaking and shuddering; from cold or emotion she doesn't know but it scares her all the same; the need with which he's clinging to her makes her wonder whether she's up to this.

Her words to Peter back in Odessa ring discordantly in her mind. _She's just a girl. _

She can't do this. He's clinging to her like she's _his _hero and that's laughable really. She'll be glad when this is all over and she can tease him about this, and she really wants this to be over and things to return to normal. What's normal in her life she doesn't know but it can't be this.

She doesn't know how long she holds him, endures the shattering of his soul. She doesn't remember when she starts rocking him, doesn't know when exactly she starts weeping herself but one minute she's not and the next Peter's sobs and hers are echoing in synchronicity around the room like a doomed symphony. She's doesn't ever want to see a man this broken ever again in her life and if her life lasts forever that's okay by her.

She holds him until his sobs subside. She's pretty much soaked by now between the shower and Peter and crying and kneeling in the tub but that isn't really her concern right now. When she feels it's okay to let him go she quickly clambers over the side and retrieves more dry towels from the cupboard. Wraps them gently around his bent and hunched shoulders and coaxes him, ever so quietly, out of the wetness.

By the time she manages to get him out of the bathroom she's exhausted and wonders how Peter managed to do this, being a nurse and caring for people unable to care for themselves day after day. It's like he's on automatic pilot and she ushers him without thought to her bed, struggles to tuck him in under a mass of blankets and wonders whether her dad will be mad or annoyed she spent the night with a man in the same room, albeit with her uncle.

But it's a trite concern because Peter's safe and she's warm. As she drags Peter's discarded blankets from the fireplace and makes an impromptu sleeping bag on the floor in her room, she thinks she'll cope if her dad's angry about the sleeping arrangements. Because as long as she hears Peter's steady breathing, she thinks everything will be fine.

* * *

She doesn't get much sleep and she's still wide awake when her dad creeps into the room. She knows he has a habit of checking in on her and so she's prepared for disapproval when he spies Peter sleeping soundly in her bed. 

But he doesn't, and once again she's so glad to have him. She keeps her eyes closed, pretends to be asleep because she's not ready to give answers to questions she doesn't want to form. Claire's heart still shakes from seeing Peter like that and she wonders whether she'll ever recover, then knows in the next moment she'll recover if he does.

Strong arms envelop her and she's being lifted up; as her dad gently carries her to his room she somehow feels a weight lifting off her. When he places her gently onto his bed she opens her eyes at last, meets his intense gaze unerringly in the darkness.

"Are you okay, Claire-bear?" It's Claire's turn to break because one minute she's staring up into her dad's worried eyes and the next she's clinging to him and sobbing her heart out; and she didn't know until this moment how hard it is to truly care for someone. Because when they cry she cries; when they shatter _she _shatters and she doesn't want to feel this, doesn't want to feel Peter's unending pain.

He allows her to sob into his chest, strokes her hair and makes shushing noises just like he used to when she was younger and still capable of fitting neatly onto his lap. She's not that much bigger now in any case and he endures her broken weeping until it finally subsides. Red-rimmed eyes meet kind, loving ones and he patiently looks on, allows her to recover.

"Dad." She cries brokenly. "Peter –"

Her dad shushes her. "I know sweetie. I know." She rests her head on his chest, feels the strong, steady rhythm of his heart. She knows she can always depend on him and it makes her feel slightly better. "I'm so proud of you. You took care of him." He sighs and something like regret colours his voice. "I'm proud of you."

There's really nothing she can say to that. She doesn't feel like she's done anything worthy of commendation, especially when Peter's in the next room, alone. "Dad, I don't want Peter to –"

"I'll stay with him." He cuts her off, makes her blink in wonder how he knows her so well. "You get some rest." Off her frustrated blinking his tone grows sterner. "I mean it Claire. You need to sleep."

"But –"

"Don't worry, I'll pull up a chair. Stay close to him. But only after you sleep."

His ultimatum is so like him, but oddly she doesn't mind at all. Claire's slightly light headed from all the crying and weeping and she really doesn't mind the idea of drifting off to sleep, especially when she knows her dad will keep his word and look after Peter.

So she nestles deeper in her dad's arms, closes her eyes, and sleeps.


	6. Part Six

**Part Six **

Her mind's not ready to sleep and despite her dad's stern instructions, she wakes again. It's still dark and she can't get the image of Peter falling apart from her mind so she gets up to check on him.

The door creaks slightly as she opens it, pokes her head in. Her dad's not in the chair but judging by the pre-dawn light it's most likely he's gone out to check the ferry schedule and maybe get some food; he's that kind of dad.

She crosses noiselessly to Peter, notes with satisfaction his calm and steady breathing. She's about to duck out again but she sees his blankets have slipped during the night; his bare chest and torso are exposed in the amber glow of the flames from the fireplace in the corner of the tiny room.

For a long moment she silently watches the long, even steady rise of his chest. Marvels at the smoothness of his skin; it's unlined and no marks remain of his dramatic plunge to the ground. Claire brings her hand up, gazes at her own flawless skin and flexes it, is entranced again by the gift she's been given. Her skin is the same as always, slight golden tinge from days spent in the hot Texas sun. Marvels at the damage this hand's been put through and yet it's still flawless, smooth and unblemished. Only she knows what it's been through, only she knows what it's like to feel her hand being diced by the garbage compactor or broken or cut.

She's just like that, and so is Peter. They're the only two people who can die and die again yet live to die another day.

She's transfixed by the steady rhythm of his breathing, his slightly pale, smooth skin, the definition of his chest and abdominal muscles as they work to keep him alive and frankly it's a miracle he's still alive. But then he shivers and she recalls why she's staring and so she reaches for the blanket and pulls it over his chest; the sun hasn't risen yet and it's still pretty cold.

He shifts, mumbles something but settles again. She feels protective and it's odd; the damsel in distress is now the hero and she must be in upside down world if that's the case. She reaches out to smooth jet black hair off his face; he mumbles at her touch and then his eyes flicker open.

When she hears his voice, it's hoarse but strong. Something like a song breaks inside her; it's only now she can really believe he's alive. That the explosion hadn't broken him, that there's hope her hero will recover. "Claire."

She's reminded of saving him that first time, when she pulled the shard of glass from his brain and his face's wearing the same expressive wonder then as now. It makes her think of the little boy he must have been, small and tiny and trusting. "Are you okay?"

He smiles a small, sweet smile, tries to sit up. She grabs his arm and helps him, somehow between the two of them they manage to haul him to a semi-sitting position. The blankets lie piled on his lap covering his modesty but Claire hardly notices, so entranced is she by the living, breathing version of Peter sitting in front of her. "I'm fine." He coughs, hoarse and ragged. "Now that you've rescued me." He coughs again which Claire takes as a sign that he's cold, so she skips to the fireplace and starts piling on more wood like there's no tomorrow. "Claire – Claire –" He has to reach to stop her frenzied fire making and she spies with relief the fire's back in his eyes. His other hand's busy securing the blanket around his torso. "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me." Her voice is small and deep and she looks at anything but him. Because if she does she'll crack under the strain of emotion trailblazing through her insides, see if she won't.

"I know." He only using the simplest of words but somehow they carry so much more meaning, more than either of them can express. "But I want to anyway." He adds almost as an afterthought. "And your dad too."

It makes her giggle for some reason. "I'll be sure to tell him." He doesn't know how much Claire and her dad have been through but then again she doesn't know how Peter and Nathan's flight to save the world ended with Peter lying in the middle of the Atlantic. But the way he says to thank her dad makes it sound like he's her sidekick and she's the hero. Which is a pretty funny thing so she has to laugh because if she doesn't she'll cry and she doesn't want Peter to see her crying and still terrified of a future where she doesn't save him.

But tears are trickling down her face anyway and his eyes waver at the sight; reaches out to wipe them gently away. Trails the wet stream down the length of her cheek; they stare at each other in the amber stillness and suddenly the air's heavy and dense with emotion. "I mean it Claire. You saved me. I'll never forget that."

"You –" Claire wants to say so much, but there isn't enough words in her brain and she settles for a sad sigh. "You – I dreamed about you Peter. Was that – was that really you?"

His smile's sweet and trusting and wonderful, so warm and inviting. Claire feels like she's coming home for the first time. "It was."

Knowing their dreams were real – that _they _were real – makes her heart sing. Suddenly she spies the truth buried beneath everything and she's awed by the realisation. She and Peter carry their own tunes individually but together they're a symphony capable of playing endlessly on.

She's laughing and crying and suddenly he stills, tucks a stray bang behind her face. His eyes are murky hazel pools in the orange glow and there's something tortured about them, something broken. She grasps wisps of it flowing through their connection but he's too tenuous at the moment and she can't see what's wrong, what troubles him. "You saved me."

"We save each other. That's what we do, isn't it?" He smiles wanly and pulls her close; they hug in the light of the sun rising across the ocean outside. She's in his arms and it feels so good it almost steals her breath away.

A polite cough breaks them apart and Claire realises how awkward this looks to her dad. Peter cringes and shies away, covers his bare chest with the mountain of blankets available at his disposal. Claire didn't think twice but in retrospect it's an odd moment because she's never hugged a naked guy before, even if they're separated by blankets and he's her uncle.

It's a stupid thought and it's banished pretty quickly, because what else matters besides Peter being alive?

* * *

The smell of freshly cooked bacon and eggs permeate the air and all three of them munch eagerly away. Predictably her dad finishes first and before he can get up Peter's already standing at attention fervently clearing the plates. 

Her dad lays a firm hand on Peter's arm. "You guys finish eating. I'm going to head out and check the next ferry. We need to get back to Mohinder and Molly." He gives her a pointed look. "I'll be back soon."

She doesn't know the reason for the look so shrugs it away. She's alone with Peter and strangely there's a discordant note in the air.

He sits back down, rather lamely she thinks but smiles softly at her across the table. She returns that smile with one of her own, knows why it's suddenly so awkward. So much happened with the crying and the everything and it's really too much for ordinary people to handle, even though she and Peter are nowhere near ordinary. "It was nice of your dad to make breakfast for us. Scrambled eggs and toast." He pipes up awkwardly, gesturing to the remnants of their breakfast.

"That's all he knows how to make." Despite exploding and almost being left for dead, he quickly gets up and pours her another cup of coffee. Sets it down in front of her with sorrow in his face.

She wants to wipe that sorrow off. "What?"

"Last night." He shifts uncomfortably, hands clasped nervously together. "I don't remember what happened, but when you were in the bathroom your dad – he kind of – he said you found me in the shower last night?"

"Oh. You don't –"

He cuts her off, determined to finish. "And um, you – I mean – I'm sorry." He rushes quickly, places a hand over hers. "I didn't mean for that to happen. I didn't want you to see me – like that."

She shrugs, like it's no big deal, even if it is. She'll never be able to forget how shattered he was, how broken and insubstantial. The picture's forever burned into her brain and damned if she doesn't want the Haitian man to come and take it from her now. "Don't worry about it."

She stares at anywhere but him, and it's awkward, well and truly awkward and she hates both of them for feeling this way. She's been so desperate and focused in her search for Peter and now she can't even look at him, even though she knows the expression in his eyes. It's the eyes of a haunted man, returned from the dead but not quite of the living.

* * *

Peter refuses to contact his mother when they get back to the city because he knows now she was willing to let him explode. Claire can't blame him. But she does blame herself for fleetingly thinking of it; she figures out on their ferry ride back that he gleaned that from her thoughts; she's responsible now for stripping the last remnants of his beautiful family from him. 

The thought wounds her; she hadn't meant for Peter to know. Her hero's been through enough already without knowing the one last bitter truth about his mother; Claire knows how important family is now and there's a bitter aftertaste in her mouth just thinking of how alone he feels. All because of _her_.

If he hadn't come to her rescue those nights ago in Odessa, would his life be the living hell it is now?

She sees the moment he read her mind, saw how his eyes had veritably glowed, then simmered. He broke again in front of her eyes and Claire doesn't know how many times a man can break and be put together before being entirely consumed to wither and die in hurt and anger.

She doesn't want that to happen to him, ever.

The mood's hushed and subdued when they get back to Peter's apartment. Her dad had called Mohinder and together with Molly are meeting them here. Claire finds herself looking around his place full of curiosity but it's not at all idle; she's wants to discover Peter, discover the person he was before he'd saved the world. She thinks she would've liked that person; hopes that person would've liked the cheerleader of bygone days too.

Peter sighs and it's rather bitter, but both Claire and her dad pretend not to notice. The air's slightly stale and she thinks it's most likely due to the rubbish that hasn't been thrown out; evidently Peter thinks so too as he scrunches his nose. "I need to toss the garbage out."

She wonders when the last time he was here, whether he knew when he closed the door that when he finally returns he'll be an entirely different person.

He picks up newspapers lying on the coffee table, tosses it in the recycling. He doesn't get the time to throw anything out though because Mohinder shows up with Molly in tow. It's still early and the little girl's drowsy from sleep, rubbing weary eyes and holds Mohinder's hand like he's a safety blanket.

Peter's eyes round with surprise; he doesn't make the connection between 'tracking system' and Molly until this moment. "This is –"

Her dad nods. "This is Molly." Molly glances once around the room, spots Claire and promptly gives her the brightest smile she's seen for a long time. Molly tears her hands away from Mohinder and skips lightly to Claire, all trusting eyes and wide smile that warms Claire's heart.

"Did you find your hero?" The girl asks loudly and in the heavy silence Claire's eyes inadvertently meets Peter's. He stills and Claire covers her embarrassment with a stilted laugh.

"Yes sweetie, I did." If her eyes are a little hooded with emotion, Peter pretends not to notice as she crosses with Molly to him. She likes the feel of the tiny hand in hers; it's like she's helping to protect the girl she used to be. "Molly, this is Peter. You helped me – us – find him."

Claire didn't have the chance to really see Peter with his nephews and hasn't really thought about it but Peter seems really good with kids; at least he's good with Molly. Despite whatever turmoil he's experiencing he gives her a cheery grin, one she returns triple-fold. He ruffles her hair and she responds by giggling, blue eyes wide with innocence. "So you're Molly. I hear you're the one who found me."

Peter kneels beside her as she nods bashfully; ends up looking earnestly into her eyes and the whole thing's pretty sweet to watch. Peter isn't treating Molly like a child but rather an equal and it seems to go straight to the little girl's heart. Her dad and Mohinder look on fondly but then peel off to have a discussion away from childish ears. "You know what that makes you?"

She giggles again, and the tingling sound is all pure innocence and sweetness. Had Claire ever been like that? She must've been, once. "No."

Peter smiles then, a wonderful, heart filled smile that does reach his eyes, eyes that search over the top of Molly's head to look directly into Claire's. Emotion and thought too precious to enunciate pierces straight to her soul. "That makes _you _my hero."

Molly appears to be taking his announcement seriously. She frowns, confused. "But you're Claire's hero. How can I be yours?"

He smiles tenderly, tucks a small wisp of hair from Molly's face; frowns as the girl starts coughing. The gesture's so familiar it almost breaks Claire's porcelain smile. Peter still has it in him to care, just a little too much. If he has a flaw than this is it; he cares about everyone a little too much, throws himself into things with abandon and absolute disregard for his life.

Her dad and Mohinder unobtrusively rejoin the fold. They're an odd collection of strangers all melded together by one dramatic night in New York. Claire's reminded again of destiny and the universe and everything; she wants to sit with Peter and talk properly about their dreams, and how it is he's alive because of her.

Molly's coughing increases and her face's suddenly pale, too pale. Mohinder bends, examines her anxiously. "She needs another treatment."

Peter's the only person who isn't aware of Molly's condition; when they tell him Claire's the only one who sees the selfish need to find Nathan flame from desperation to desire before simmering into hibernation. Claire crosses to Peter's side as her dad helps Mohinder carry Molly to Peter's room; the man's cradling her like she's some precious cargo he'd give his life to protect.

She and her dad hover uselessly in the background while Mohinder retrieves the necessary equipment from his bag. Peter softly takes the IV and other things Claire can't identify and has a whispered conversation with Mohinder; it's only then that she recalls again that Peter's a nurse.

Her hero's a nurse, which makes perfect sense to her. A few weeks ago she would've laughed at the idea of a male nurse being her knight in shining armour, but then again a few weeks ago she was _just _a cheerleader, _only _a girl.

Her dad spreads comforting arms around her and she sinks into him gratefully. They wait patiently until Mohinder and Peter come out, Peter closing the bedroom door softly.

"How is she?" Her dad asks, concerned, and she trusts it's more for Molly as a girl than as a tracking system. Claire hasn't forgotten her dad's ruthless streak but he's proven beyond doubt his heart's in the right place; if a girl can't trust her dad then who else can she trust?

Mohinder's worried, his voice low and uneven. "She'll be okay in a few hours. She just needed another transfusion." He sticks a spare bag of saline back into his bag, curses loudly. "I should've remembered what time it was. She was due for another one. I've just been so distracted with everything –"

It's hard watching a man beat himself uselessly but no one quite knows what to say. She imagines the Peter before the explosion would have been kind and offered comforting words, but those words stick in his throat now. He swallows uncomfortably, and Claire grieves. She's lost a part of the man she met in Odessa and doesn't know how to get him back.

When someone does speak, it's her dad, firm and business-like. "We obviously can't ask Molly where Nathan is." Off Mohinder's surprise, he nods. "Claire and Peter think he's alive."

Peter utters through gritted teeth. "_Know _he's alive."

"Molly was our best bet. When –"

Mohinder's quick to pre-empt their request. Peter and Claire, and vicariously her dad's priority is finding Nathan; Mohinder's is protecting and caring for Molly. They all understand who and what's at stake. "Not for another two hours. I should've – she was due for another transfusion a few hours ago." He shakes his head, runs impatient fingers through unruly hair. "It'll take her longer to recover because of the lag."

"But we can't just sit here and do nothing!" It's Peter who suddenly bursts with frustration, slamming raw knuckles against his coffee table that almost breaks it in half. Frankly Claire's surprised it's taken him this long to lose control. He's wound tight as a drum, a coil ready to spring at any moment. She shares his impatience; wonders whether it's his impatience she actually feels and not her own. Claire's so enmeshed in Peter through their dreams she doesn't know where she ends and he begins.

Is it natural to feel so close to another human being, to her uncle?

She doesn't have time to wonder because her dad stands, tall and commanding in the late morning light. Looks down at Peter and Claire sitting with muted gazes on the couch. "Peter, I know you don't want to, but I think we need to go to your mother." He railroads through Peter's indignation as his eyes meet Claire's. "I gather she's got connections. Even with Linderman and Thompson gone, she might know where to start." He looks directly at Peter, flings a challenge he knows the younger man cannot refuse. "If you want to find your brother, if you don't want to lose another minute, we need to see your mother. Unless -"

"What?"

Her dad stares pointedly at Peter. "You're a mimic. You can probably access Molly's power. If you want to."

The revulsion on Peter's face is so intense she can't quite figure it out at first, but then it clicks. The last time he absorbed a power – well, second to last time, if she understood her dad's explanation about the tall blonde woman at Kirby Plaza correctly – he'd been responsible for almost destroying a city, causing his brother to quite possibly give up his life. She realises even without explanation that he can't do that again, not yet.

"I can't." He says crisply, stares evenly at her dad with a plea in his eyes. "I can't. Not yet." He looks like he's about to gag from nausea coursing through still shaky veins and Claire understands. She's not about to pull the Nathan card; nobody knows more than she does how desperately Peter wants to find his brother.

Her dad nods slowly; it seems like he understands, and together they head out. Her shoulder brushes past Peter's and the brief contact jolts her, like sparks igniting into flame. He doesn't show any signs of having felt it though so she keeps quiet, enjoys the sunshine as they step out onto the street below while regretting the closeness they felt in their dreams.

Perhaps they'll dream together tonight. She steals a glance at him, wonders whether he can read her thoughts. "_Can we dream tonight?" _

He stills, blinks rapidly. A ghost of a smile illuminates his face; it's like a sun dawning over a grey horizon.

She knows he's heard her. The thought comforts and bolsters her in the day ahead.


	7. Part Seven

**Part Seven**

Peter's all fidgety when they finally get to the grand Petrelli town house and Claire can't blame him. His anger tangibly rolls off him and she knows it's taking all his willpower just to smooth everything into neutrality. She gets an inkling of precisely how deeply he loved his mother and loves her still; she can't help but think that because of this he feels her betrayal more keenly.

Cars creep by in the lazy early afternoon. Claire's lost track of the days; whether it's a weekend or weekday she can't be bothered to tell. Everything's completely out of control and she doesn't have it in her to care beyond their immediate goal; to find Nathan safe and sound, return him to his family because he'd been willing to make the ultimate sacrifice to save the world.

Her dad rings the doorbell; it chimes discordantly as birds lightly chirp outside. Claire feels incongruous outside the wrought iron and glass door even though only a week ago she was living inside. It never felt like home and she remembers with a start how it only began to feel warm and safe when Peter came back, when she pulled the shard of glass from his head and become his hero the first time.

She feels his eyes on her, heavy with emotion. His hand brushes against hers lightly; probably would've taken them in his if the door hadn't opened.

When it does though, their attention's arrested and all the air seems to be sucked from the atmosphere.

Nathan stands there, pristine in his finely tailored Italian suit, crisp white shirt, brilliantly polished shoes. They gape at him like he's the second coming and really, Claire's jumbled mind has just enough working capacity to acknowledge that's probably not a bad description right now.

Nathan's eyes flare when he sees Peter, runs forward to envelop his little brother in a hug. "Peter. Thank god. I've been worried sick." Claire looks to her dad but he's as shocked as she is; his jaw's slack, watching the brothers reunite.

Peter's arms are still by his side, he's in so much shock he can't move. "Nathan … is that … is it really you?" He manages to gasp between stilted breaths as he starts gripping his brother back. Releases him finally; looks him up and down like he's an illusion that's going to shatter any second. "How did you –"

"Come in, I'll explain everything." Nathan puts his arm around Peter, peers at Claire and her dad standing awkwardly to the side. His eyes widen when they land on her dad but it's only a momentary flicker; Claire thinks she must've imagined it. Her dad's resolute, contemplative.

They're in the black and white marble foyer with the elaborate chandelier dangling above their heads. Everything's rather gaudy but Claire knows it's the very latest in old world chic in interior design; it's precisely why she can never think of it as home. Peter's staring in shock and wonder into his older brother's face; she decides she likes the effect on him. The weight of the world's slowly being lifted and it gives her hope for a brighter future.

"How did you survive the explosion?" Peter winces visibly at her dad's bluntness, but Claire has to admit he's got a point. Back in Odessa she'd been the only person who'd been able to get close enough to inject Ted and prevent a nuclear blast. Remembers the radiation pulsating off him had been enough to melt skin from bones. So she understands why her dad's asking; it's an absolute miracle Nathan's standing in front of them without some much as a scratch.

Her biological father ignores her dad, instead looks to Peter still staring with wonder, confusion, joy, and something else – she can't quite decipher. "Peter? Do you remember?"

Peter shakes his head slowly, sadly, looks like a little boy lost. "I must've blacked out." Brushes weary hands over equally weary eyes. "I can't – I can't see – I can't remember."

The same distress marring Peter's features the night before clouds his expression again but Nathan's there this time, figuratively tending his wounds. "That's okay." He stares long and hard at his younger brother, takes his time before responding. "I dropped him. When I thought he was high enough, I dropped him then flew off." His gaze flits to Claire before landing once again on Peter. "I'm sorry. I had to try –"

Peter looks up, eyes shining with love. "No, you did the right thing." She knows he's thinking of Heidi and his nephews and it's just like him, her hero in shining armour.

They stand awkwardly in the foyer, the Bennets and the Petrellis. Claire's hands stay by her sides, she can't bring herself to even look at Nathan and she's disgusted with herself for it. If she has to be honest – and she really doesn't want to be – Nathan's usurped her place by Peter's side and it's awful really to be thinking that. The man had been willing to give up his life to save both her and Peter a lifetime of regret and she's worrying about her place by her uncle's side?

"Have we met before?" Her dad asks in the sudden stillness, squints hard.

Nathan's expression darkens; she thinks she senses confusion but isn't sure. His response however is crisp and decisive. "No. Have we?"

Peter frowns, looks from Claire to Nathan to her dad then back to her and she shrugs. Before a question can escape her lips her dad's smirking and it's an oddly ugly expression. "You're going to have to come up with new material. Your illusion's perfect, but your acting isn't. Plus you didn't do a complete background check. You need to work on that."

Claire blinks in the afternoon sunshine and doesn't know what to think. Looks with wide, imploring eyes to the only dad she's ever known. "Dad? What's going on?"

Her dad stands, hands on hips. Glares at her biological father. "This man – this _person _– isn't Nathan."

If she had enough breath left in her she would've gasped, but Claire just stares in slack-jawed disbelief while somehow knowing in the pit of her stomach the truth. Her gaze swerves to Peter's and his expression mirrors hers, all confusion and uncertainty. "What are you talking about?" His eyes are the ones imploring now, begging and pleading for mercy from cruel vagaries of the world, the latest in a long line. "Nathan, what's he talking about?"

"Nothing." Nathan's eyes are dark and angry now, turbulent waves in a sweeping storm. "I have no idea what he's talking about."

Her dad strides towards Nathan – or maybe it's not Nathan, Claire doesn't really know what to think – comes at him with full force. "This person isn't Nathan. If you don't believe me," he addresses Peter now. "Ask him something. Something private."

Peter's backing away from her dad's conviction but primes himself to ask. But before he can, Nathan – or not – sneers, then somehow shimmers out of focus. When it clears they see a tall, brunette woman in a Catholic schoolgirl-style skirt, knee high boots, an ugly, sadistic smile on her face. She would have been attractive if not almost having succeeded in hoodwinking them. "What tipped you off?" She lowers her eyes, gazes through long lashes. "I'm curious. For research purposes you know."

If the woman thinks her dad's willing to indulge in a normal conversation she's dead wrong. He pulls out his silver gun, aims it unerringly at her. But then Peter's there and with an angry wave of his hand he's flung her clean across the cavernous foyer, pins her against the far wall. He's finally using his powers again and his eyes aren't tormented now but Claire doesn't like what she sees, they're spitting fire and fury; the very picture of death and destruction boiling through still broken veins. "What have you done with Nathan?" He's shouting and it's more like a roar, deep and inhuman and it frightens her with its intensity. Reminds her of his self-destruction in the bathroom the night before, the desperation and loss too much for one gentle soul to bear.

"Nothing." The woman appears genuinely scared and Claire can't blame her, believes Peter is actually capable of killing her with one casual flick of the wrist in that horrific instant. "I didn't do anything to him."

"Liar. Tell me!"

"That's enough." Nothing short of family could have stopped him, so it's lucky for the woman that Angela Petrelli storms in, eyes cool and frozen as ice. "That's enough, all of you." She glares at Peter, everything softening as she takes him in. "Peter, let her go. She's only doing what's been asked of her. And you –" She steps unflinchingly into the line of fire. "Noah Bennet. You can put your gun away. You won't need that here."

It seems for a long, aching moment that no one's going to obey her slim but stern presence, but eventually Peter steals a glance at her dad who nods back imperceptibly. The next instant the woman drops to the floor, cries as her hands and knees make contact painfully. Claire winces as she thuds heavily but no one else bats an eye. It reminds her anew how crazy her life's become.

Five minutes later they all sit in awkward formality around Angela's rather grand dining table, chairs being scraped across wooden floors making it creak loudly in the silence. Angela's sent the woman upstairs to recover and more important to stay out of their way and Peter sneered angrily at that, looked at his mother with something akin to disgust. Claire caught the older woman's face and knows Angela saw the look but can't spare enough pity for someone who'd been willing to supervise the destruction of millions of lives.

To describe the air as hostile would have been an understatement so Claire restrains from doing so, even in her own head.

It's Angela who breaks the cold silence, pierces the film of resentment like an icepick. "Peter, I'm so glad you're safe." She moves to cover his hands but he slithers them away, torment and anger fuelling his words.

"You!" He sneers and the expression's so ugly Claire almost has to tear her eyes away. "You don't get to be glad. Nathan's gone and you're – you're asking that _woman _–" He can't even say it; the truth leaves him spluttering with fury and so it's lucky her dad picks up the torch. His gun still gleams brightly from the table, forms a strange yet dangerous centrepiece to their discussion.

"Mrs Petrelli, I take it you've asked Candice to – fill in – while Nathan's missing?"

The older woman nods, and to be fair to her biological grandmother Claire sees hints of sorrow and grief in her eyes. But not enough, not enough for a son who'd been willing to sacrifice everything for those he truly loved. "Nathan won the election. He's a Congressman now." Swallows a few times and is about to continue when a shadow enters the room, strong and silent. "Ah, an old friend's come to join us."

Angela looks at Claire and so she turns, sees the tall Haitian man framing the doorway. His eyes are as deep and mysterious as always and there's nothing in that expression that gives away anything of the person inside. She glances at Peter; an instinct as natural to her as breathing. Wonders whether the Haitian's presence will dampen any of Peter's abilities or the anger that seems to go with them, something the Haitian man had told her of his abilities on their trip out of Texas.

Peter returns her gaze, seems to be reading her expression. Then she remembers he actually can read her thoughts and knows when their eyes meet in the stillness she's let another truth slip through her mind into Peter's. Why is he always there, inside her?

He blinks rapidly; the others are murmuring like they're talking but Claire can't hear them, it's like her ears are muffled by something and all she can see and hear and feel is the beating of her heart. Then there's a caress, warm and gentle inside her brain and all over her insides before it cautiously withdraws.

It's Peter, snaking around inside her. Knows it like the truth of her birth. Her eyes widen even more as she grasps it and they just stare mutely at each other. Claire's never felt closer to anyone in her life than she is to Peter right now and she never wants him to leave.

Before she can tell him – ask, plead with him not to leave – a cavern opens up and a dreadful emptiness washes over her. She knows then that he's left; feels oddly bereft but then he's speaking and he's back to being angry, tormented. It's like something's clamped off her connection to Peter and she instinctively looks at the Haitian who's moving ever closer to the table. Peter's gaze jerks in that direction too, eyes flashing with fury.

Stands up suddenly, making the whole table shake with his rage. "Is he why I can't read your mind right now mom? You need him to keep more secrets from me?"

"Peter." She exclaims and Claire has to admit she does sound genuinely hurt. Not that Peter doesn't have a point and she doesn't know why she's even feeling sorry for her grandmother. But he's so full of spit and rage and fury it's hard not to back away or be genuinely frightened at its blunt force.

Claire doesn't say anything; merely lays a hand softly on his. The effect is electric and almost instantaneous and if she'd been in a calmer frame of mind it would've seized her in wonder. That she can have this effect on him gives her a cloak of serenity that's priceless, especially in these tepid moments of grief.

Irrationality seems to fly from him; he's back to being bent, grieving for a brother he may have lost forever. "Why mom?" He sinks back into the chair, appears so tiny all of a sudden it's all Claire can do to not run into his arms. "Why?"

It's not clear what exactly he's asking but Angela responds anyway. "I did it for the world Peter." She answers just as tearfully and Claire's glad and relieved to see it, relieved to see that her grandmother has real feelings after all and isn't the monster she seems to be. Not quite. "These are the choices we need to make to save the world. Sometimes hard decisions need to be made. It would've united the world."

"You would've let me explode. Kill millions of people. And for what?" Claire and her dad are looking as this family drama – no tragedy's – unfolding, mere witnesses in the disintegration of a loving relationship. Every moment spent in Angela's presence sees her relationship with her son diminish.

"You would've survived." All of a sudden Angela's thin veneer of control's cracking; Claire glimpses for only the second time the real person underneath, loving mother to her determined, courageous sons. "Thanks to Claire, you would've survived."

"But as what? A murderer?"

Angela can't respond anymore and even Claire realises there's no answer to his questions. If she does know her grandmother – and she doesn't really, but she senses anyway – she did what she thought was right. And like every other person with Petrelli blood flowing through their veins, she was stubborn and determined enough to see it through to the bitter end.

Evidently her dad also thinks this isn't getting them anywhere; he carefully directs the conversation back to finding Nathan. "Mrs Petrelli, the reason why we came here –" He steals a glance at Peter, but he's not in any emotional state to respond. "Peter and Claire think – they _know _– Nathan's still alive."

Something like hope dawns on the older woman's face, light and open. "Peter?" He refuses to even meet her gaze so it lands instead on Claire; she timidly meets Angela's eyes. "Claire? Is it true?" Claire nods wordlessly, suspects emotion will play havoc with her voice if she tries using it.

"We have the tracking system."

"You mean –"

"Yes." Her dad nods meaningfully and Claire senses she's only catching half of this conversation. "But it's … it's down at the moment. It'll take time to get it working again. Time your son may not have."

Angela's snap shut; when they open again her gaze's returned to crystalline, cold. "What do you need?"

"Anything you've got."

She stills, and the silence's so drawn out even Peter brings his gaze up to rest on her.

Her response is something that's simple, but effective. Brings them to their feet, their hearts in their throats. "You'll have it. Just bring my son back."

_Author's Note: Sorry about the slower updating, real life's catching up with me. Also a note about my other fic "Salvation", I haven't stopped updating it yet. I want to finish this one off before continuing (and finishing it). Thanks for your patience! _


	8. Part Eight

**Part Eight**

Peter and Mohinder end up having a throw down back at Peter's apartment about Molly. Claire and her dad stand on the sidelines, knowing how important each man's task is, knows who they have to protect and how important those people are to them.

Molly's awake and conscious now but it doesn't mean Mohinder's not preventing access to her at the moment. He says she's still too weak and needs the rest and judging from the girl's pallor Claire admits the geneticist may have a point, but can't quite bring herself to say it because of her loyalty to Peter. So they're angrily hissing at each other, pretending it's not brewing into a full blown fight and she and her dad quietly stay out of emotional harms way.

They withdraw to the kitchen to await – well, she's not sure even her dad quite knows what. Claire's sniffling slightly from the New York climate as she rummages curiously through Peter's kitchen cupboards like they were her own while her dad looms in the doorway keeping a steady eye on the fight outside. Mohinder's obviously at a disadvantage not being in possession of superpowers but Claire wants to tell her dad not to worry; no matter how angry Peter gets he's not going to take it out on the other man.

"This would be easier if Peter just accessed Molly's powers." He seems to be musing to himself but when she turns he's looking at her rather pointedly. She's got her fingers literally in Peter's cookie jar as he says this and but it doesn't stop her from catching his less than veiled meaning. "He seems to trust you more than anyone. You need to convince him to use Molly's power to find Nathan."

She withdraws her hand silently, bites her lip. "I can't ask him to do that dad."

"Yes, you can. You have to." He tilts her face up, gazes down at her with love. "I'm not the one who wants this. Finding Nathan? That's you and Peter. You two have convinced all of us Nathan's still out there." He smiles at her, fondly traces a finger down her cheek. "This is your mission Claire-bear, and we've run out of options. Angela Petrelli can only do so much with her connections. They'll probably find him eventually, but maybe not in time." Claire's frozen with fear and indecision and he finally has to drive the point home. "Do you know how long a man can live without food, without water, before they die?" It's destroying him to have to open her eyes to brutal truth but Claire's glad he's doing it. If he gets her to overcome her own fear, she's glad – or at least she will be after.

"Dad!" She tears her eyes away, blinks angrily and it's only then she realises the thought of Nathan, out there alone just like Peter had been makes her cry, yet again. She's so tired of this, tired of crying, feeling like some pawn in this universal game that has nothing whatsoever to do with her. Except she's enmeshed in it, caught in silken webs and the only thing she can do is fight or die.

And dying's not really an option for her anyway.

She nods, shrugs off her dad's hold and with shaky legs enters the battleground. The men haven't quite come to blows (not yet anyway) but their heavy breathing and fractious glances tell her they're getting close.

Mohinder sees her first; squares his shoulders. He thinks she's come to help Peter but she stems his concern, faces Peter haltingly. "Can we talk?" The quietness of her voice does nothing to mask her determination; Molly's self-appointed protector senses this and quickly withdraws into the bedroom to look after his charge.

Peter glances after Mohinder, frowns angrily when he finally turns to face her. "Why'd you stop me? He was almost going to agree. Not that we really need his permission." He murmurs, making Claire blanch.

"Do you hear what you're saying? You're asking him to put a little girl's health in danger for something … something you can do yourself?"

His eyes are saucer-wide, like a deer caught in dreadful headlights. "I can't Claire – you know – "

"I know. Trust me, I know. But you have to. We've run out of time." Takes a lesson from her dad and twists the knife in, drives the point home. "If that was me in there – if someone asked you to put my life in danger to help someone else – you –" Her voice cracks despite herself. "You wouldn't let them, would you?" Never mind Claire isn't exactly on par with a small child and she's nowhere near as dependent on Peter as Molly is on Mohinder, but he sees her point anyway; grudgingly sinks down onto the couch, head in his hands.

He's mumbling, distracted and confused. Claire has to kneel in front of him to hear what he's saying. "Don't ask me to, please don't ask me to. I can't." His hands covers his face, and panic blinds her because she can't see his eyes at the moment, can't see what he's going through. If she can't see what he's going through how is she going to help him?

So she gently cups her hands over his, whispers comforting, soothing nothings to him, words she can never remember afterwards but she's really convinced it's her voice that's going to reach him, not her words. Imagines how her dad used to whisper in those same soothing tones to her as a child, chasing her nightmares away; grasps those strands and weaves them for Peter now. Except what they're caught up in isn't exactly a nightmare but infinitely worse.

But she can't do any more beyond whisper meaningless words; it's only when her dad lays a firm hand on her shoulder that she's able to unleash the torrent of helplessness in her. Has to look up at her dad with beseeching eyes, wide and shining with tears she's already shed for her sunken hero.

He nods, carefully brushes her away. Sits down on the coffee table and stares in silence at Peter for a long moment, shaking so hard his teeth are chattering. Is this what post traumatic stress looks like? Claire's never been close enough to anyone so traumatised but she guesses that if anyone has a reason, Peter does.

Her dad's eyes pierces her in the gloom; she looks up now and it's dark. The day's gone by so quickly and they're still no closer to finding Nathan than they were this morning. "Here, this will make you feel better." She only notices the glass of whiskey when he proffers it to Peter, sees the just opened bottle placed incongruously by the table. It surprises her Peter has hard liquor in his apartment but then she remembers he is man, and no matter how heroic they are men always have liquor stashed at their apartments. Or so she imagines Jackie's giggly voice reminding her, the ghost of a voice long gone.

Peter doesn't seem to register or see what he's drinking, he does it because he's told to. Her dad watches him drink the amber liquid, glances at Claire staring in wonder at how he's handling this so calmly. He motions her to withdraw, give them some space and so she does, withdrawing to the bedroom to check on Molly.

When she silently opens the door Molly's asleep again. Mohinder's pulled up a chair and is just staring at the steady rise and fall of the little girl's chest. "How is she?"

"The same. I'm sorry." Hurries on, as if afraid of a 16 year old girl's recriminations. If only he knows how much she understands. "I can't let her use her power yet, she's still weak."

"I know."

"Does he?" There's no bitterness in Mohinder's voice, just concern. Dark eyes tilt up to meet hers in the gloom and she has to nod, cure his worry because Peter's just not like that.

"Of course he does. Peter's … he's been through a lot. You know that."

"I know. And I owe him." Off her curious look, he elaborates. "He saved my life. He saved me from Sylar."

The mere mention of that man's name conjures up images and feelings so horrible it's all Claire can do to swallow down bile inducing fear. It isn't rational nor sensible but she doesn't care; she doesn't want to even think of that man right now. He killed Ted Sprague which had stopped them from getting out of New York safely; if they'd gotten out of New York Peter never would have exploded and Nathan would never have had to sacrifice himself.

It doesn't help to realise her life's a house of cards that so easily comes tumbling down with the single breath of a madman.

"He's a good man." Mohinder continues and he doesn't sense her fear. She swallows down that gut wrenching fears and concentrates on the other man's voice, softened by pain and stress.

"How's Matt?" She asks, hoping to distract him but it only adds to his concern.

He looks up with stricken eyes. "I've completely forgotten to check – with Molly's last transfusion – I forgot to check."

She doesn't know him nearly well enough to offer words of comfort, so she's forced to silently watch as he paces around Peter's bedroom searching for a phone.

She takes the opportunity to open the door slightly to check on her two heroes. Her eyes widen as she spies her dad, crouching in front of Peter. He's got his head in his hands just like they'd been before but if possible his shoulders are even more bent than before, more hunched. Claire physically aches to see him in this much pain but trusts her dad knows what he's doing.

He's speaking to Peter in hushed tones, low and steady, she catches random words as they flow through the ether, words like "control", "ready" and "trust". She realises then her dad's not merely giving comfort or consolation; he's actually encouraging Peter to use his power.

She catches her dad's eyes just as he helps Peter to lie down on the couch, nods once at her to let her know everything's okay.

But she doesn't really need his reassurance. Claire knows that as long as her dad's with her on this, everything's going to be fine.

* * *

Peter's apartment is unnaturally large for a one-bedder in Manhattan but it still only has one bedroom all the same. With Molly already on Peter's bed and Peter himself slumped unconscious on the couch, there really weren't too many options for the rest of them.

Mohinder decides he's going to take the opportunity to check on Matt Parkman, a suggestion that almost gets him into another heated discussion (fight), this time with her dad. In the end they decide calling the hospital is a much more logical compromise and Mohinder relents. Without missing a beat the two men then turn on Claire and insist she get some rest; she's been up for a long time and should get some sleep.

Never mind she's old enough to take care of herself, old enough to have stopped another nuclear man from exploding. Yet she doesn't mind their protectiveness because now that she knows what real danger is, she treasures their concern, treasures the fact that there are people still willing to protect her.

She ransacks Peter's cupboards and finds what she needs, settles onto the floor of his bedroom. Softly tiptoes around to not disturb Molly's slumber. She arranges yet another makeshift sleeping bag for herself out of a collection of his sheets, sheets that pierce the bottom of her stomach because they smell so much like him it almost makes her weep. She misses his kindly eyes, the smile that droops on the side of his mouth, misses the little in jokes about Superman and flying and underwear on the outside, everything they'd begun to have in that short week before it happened.

Misses him, his arms around her, protecting her from her nightmares. She trusts him just like she trusts her dad, but it's different with Peter somehow.

She inhales the sheets, glances around guilty as if expecting someone to catch her in the act. She doesn't know why she's being so furtive, Peter's her uncle and it's only natural for her to care about him, right?

His scent reminds her of happier times, happier moments if not exactly happy in retrospect that she'd stolen from the impending doom to come. Peter's less than impressed wink at her from across the table at their first family dinner after his 'resurrection'; his fight with Nathan after she'd been informed of their plans for her in Paris; showing her the sketches he'd drawn with Isaac's power. There were smaller moments too that mean so much more now; eating ice cream in Central Park, having hot dogs together with mustard dribbling down her chin, catching the subway for the first time. Flashes of a friendship with a man that could've been, could be still, if only …

If only they find Nathan.

Suddenly she's dreaming again; the moment her heart realises the dreamscape before her it soars.

But not for long. Her joy settles and simmers and soon is gone altogether as she stares mutely at the barren landscape. Dry, harsh desert, red sand beneath her toes. The hardness of the sun's rays as they begin beating down on her relentlessly, heat simmering and creeping into every sinew of her body, choking every bit of moisture from the air, from her lungs, from everywhere.

Claire shades her eyes, looks around in growing desperation. She's all alone in this barren, parched landscape, without no one to protect her.

Where's Peter? Why isn't he here, with her?

It suffocates her, the endless red that she sees, wave upon wave assaulting already overwrought senses. She's too small in the midst of all this barrenness, too small and inconsequential to fight against the monstrosity wavering around her.

So she does the only thing she can do; cries for help. Sends out her voice as a lonely echo to the only person she knows can hear her in this private hell. "Peter!" Her feet begin to ache and blister from the scorching heat; realises she's being burned alive, from the outside in, and her healing's not helping. Goodness and healing have no place in a landscape like this. "Peter! God, please, Peter."

But there's no joy, no response. The lingering lilt of her own voice echoes around her, carried by stinging, bitter wind, deposits grainy particles of desert sand in her eyes, nose, mouth. Every time Claire swallows she feels more sand creep down her throat, realises she's being slowly burned and choked to death and God, she's crying pathetically in this nightmarish world and where's Peter in all of this?

Even her tears sting like liquid metal as they fall down her cheek. She looks down at her hands and gasps in horror when they start glowing, red hot even against the blistering heat around her.

Suddenly a hand rests on her shoulder, tilts her face up. It's Peter, in all his sorrowful glory. She can't process anything else beyond choking out. "What's happening?"

"I'm so sorry." He whispers, and she remembers that face. It's the face of a thousand nightmares, regret and helplessness mingling into wild, untamed sorrow. "I'm sorry I brought you into this. I … didn't mean to."

His pain somehow frees hers, long enough at least for her tears to still. Claire looks up at him, incredulous, realises she's seeing what he's been feeling since returning from fiery hell in the middle of the ocean.

Except he hasn't returned from hell at all; he's still here.

She doesn't even need to ask him; realises it's moments like these that cements their friendship forever. "It's not your fault." She manages to gasp out, just as Peter collapses next to her. His lips are parched, eyes of a dead man walking. Worse still, his beautiful hair falls lank and lifeless across his face, somehow symbolic of the slow death of a kind man. "Peter, it's not your fault."

"Yes, it is. Nathan will die, because I can't use her power." Even his voice is dry and parched now as he lies back, face to the sun, arms outstretched in Christ-like fashion. There's no shade for miles around, none as far as her eye can see. In no time at all his face will burn and blister, he'll be burned alive –

– Just like he thinks he should've been, when he'd exploded in his brother's arms.

"No!" His defeat, his readiness to succumb to harsh reality, goads her into action. She rolls, painfully blistering smooth skin, decides she doesn't much like the whole feeling pain and not healing thing, but pushes on regardless.

She's on her hands and knees now, and they burn, burn so badly it stings her eyes, prompts hot, fresh tears to flow. But she can't give up, can't give up on Peter and if she keeps on repeating this to herself she'll make it to her feet.

She can't give up she can't give up she can't give up can't give up can't give up

Finally she's on unsteady feet; is able to glance down at Peter's prone form as he lies, imitating a body without life. "No!" She spits, doesn't actually have enough moisture to literally spit but enough spark's there from her anger for her to complete her mission. "You don't get to give up. You don't get to lie down and die." She kicks him, can't think of anything else she's capable of doing so she does it again, harder, and harder, accentuates each sentence with another hard kick. "We don't get to give up! Nathan – he needs you, he needs you to use Molly's power. Dad needs you to find Nathan. The world needs you – even your mom needs you!" She's drawn so much energy her lungs feel like they're about to burst, actually believes that's what they're in the process of doing and wonders, if she dies here, does it mean she really dies too?

Finally – finally – she sees a flicker in his eyes, so she grinds on, heart rising with every limp movement. "We all need you Peter." Sinks down to her knees, energy and life being sapped with each breath in the arid setting. Has just enough breath to gasp pitifully. "I need you."

He blinks rapidly; like he's seeing her for the first time. "Claire?" Just hearing her name is heaven to her parched ears, hearing his voice saying it heightens the effect a thousand fold. "Claire?" It's like he's regaining use of his voice, his limbs, his emotions. Rises slowly to his knees, wheezes with difficulty in the stifling air. Sees her swaying and about to fall.

But she doesn't, because he catches her, cradles her to his chest. "Thank you." He whispers softly into her ear as she sinks against him, sobbing with relief.


	9. Part Nine

**Part Nine**

  
She doesn't know when it changes, but one moment her own breath stings and suffocates her lungs, the next a fresh breeze washes over every exposed inch of her body, soothing cool and calmness intermingled with the low hum of Peter's murmuring. He's whispering but it's frantic and tight and so low she can hardly hear it, but it's there. 

"It's over?" Her voice comes out so tiny and helpless, enough to make her wince. But it's okay because Peter just gazes quietly down, gently squeezes her arms before letting them slide to the side.

He should know by now he doesn't have to let her go. Claire feels so comfortable with him; doesn't need him to yield to family propriety over whatever connection they share.

Realises the truth that's been right in front of her this whole time; that she and Peter are connected, beyond destiny, even family. Soul mates for want of better words but even that confines whatever they have to earthly reality; it's only in dreams they can appreciate feel how close they are and always will be.  
"I'm so sorry." He sighs softly into her hair, his breath tingling her skin. He's so soft and warm, inviting and comforting and reminds her of every piece of home she's left behind.

"Don't be. Please don't be. You're here now." Claire knows in real life – although this is more real than anything she'll ever feel – she never would dare say words like these, stripped of all pretence where nuances mean so little and the meaning so much.

He looks down, strokes her hair fondly, half with amazement and the other half with wonder. "You keep on doing this. Saving me."

"I need you."

Three little words, so simple but she uses them with such devastating effect. If she's a tiny bit more lucid she'd describe them as literally casting a spell over him; he's stunned and amazed and they just stare in wordless contemplation as the mild breeze ruffles their hair, swirling their clothes into the azure sky.

"I need you too. Always have."

"Always will." The grin he gives is so light it almost makes her float. But then the moment stills and reality sets in, or what passes as reality here. "Now we have to find Nathan."

"I can't." His face twists into fear, but she's not about to give in to it. Because finding Nathan isn't just about finding her biological father; it's about saving Peter and to be completely honest with herself, she's doing this more for the latter. Knows here and now Peter's so connected to his brother that tearing him from Nathan will condemn him to a phantom half-life. And so she needs to push him through this, even though he's the adult and she's the kid but roles mean nothing here and especially not to people like Claire and Peter.

"You can." She'll probably forget this truth when she wakes but for now she clings stubbornly onto it. "You can Peter. Take my hand." Feels odd being this forceful and it's almost like she's playing his guide, which is strange and wonderful but everything feels normal in this topsy turvy world Peter's created for them.

Despite his uncertainty he reaches out, takes her hand like he's afraid it'll slip out of his grasp any second. Feels their connection pulsate with life as he looks deeply into her eyes. "Don't be afraid."

He closes his eyes; it's like she's suddenly seeing double and she realises she's seeing through both her eyes and Peter's. Or maybe Peter's seeing through her eyes, it really doesn't matter. His mind's suddenly so clear now, so fresh and serene and she feels his smile flow like hot chocolate on a cold winter's night into her brain, trails just underneath her skin. "I can do this."

Claire closes her eyes, smile mirroring his. "Yes, you can." And patiently, she waits for the answer she knows he'll find.

* * *

  
She knows Peter wakes the same time she does, even though they're in separate rooms and she's groggy and weak at first. The sun's half risen by the time she squints out of the fully drawn blinds, spares a furtive glance at Molly who's wide eyes stare back at her. "Hey. You're awake." 

"You were dreaming." The little girl replies quietly. "You calling 'Peter'. Is he your friend?"

"My best friend." The words even take Claire by surprise and so she decides to brush away embarrassment. "Sweetie, does Mohinder know you're awake? He's been really worried about you."

Molly shakes her head, yawns then covers her mouth with an impish grin. "I'm hungry." Her smile's so delightful it lifts Claire's spirits; she tickles the small girl for a moment before promising. "We'll get Mohinder to get some breakfast, how does that sound?"

When she opens the door she finds Peter was just about to come in. They stare awkwardly at each other in the real world until she clumsily sputters about breakfast and bagels and caffeine and before she can finish he grabs her, maybe a little too harshly but after the butterfly touches they shared in the dream she doesn't mind.

"I know I can find Nathan." With that he strides past her into his bedroom, kneels on the floor just by Molly's side. Smiles and as Claire crosses to stand on the opposite side of the bed sees the twinkle and sparkle back in his eyes. "Molly? You can find people, can't you?"

She anticipates the favour and frowns slightly. Peter shakes his head though, gently covers the girl's hand. "No, I need you to tell me how it works." Leans in conspiratorially. "I'll tell you a secret. I can do what you do."

"Really?" There's a movement and out of the corner of her eye she sees Mohinder, keeping a watchful eye. The seriousness with which he takes his responsibility would have been awe inspiring, if she hadn't seen it first hand from Peter and her dad. "I've never met anyone like me before."

Claire knows how that feels, recalls the revelation that changed her life forever that night she saw Peter come back to life at Union Wells.

Peter winks, whispers softly. "I just need you to teach me how to do it properly."

He's said just the right thing because the smile bursts onto Molly's face again, and haltingly, then with growing confidence she spills her secrets out to the man with the gentle soul and heart to match. By this time Claire hears soft tinkering in the background and the sound of the kettle coming to boil. It's most likely her dad exercising sound judgement again and is preparing a much needed caffeine fix for everyone.

Soon enough her dad motions Claire and Mohinder out; they leave Peter and Molly in the room in whispered conversation. She turns her eyes on Mohinder, who shrugs. "She'll be fine now the transfusion's had time to work. She was probably fine a few hours ago."

Claire doesn't bother telling him Peter probably knows this anyway, but it's important for him to use and control his power; not cave in to fear and loathing because it's the easy way out for them, all of them with genuine power at their disposal.

She knows this first hand, knew it when she awoke in Brody's broken car. Power's deadly when used the wrong way and nothing that's happened to her since convinces her otherwise.

It's like her dad has power of his own, a sixth sense because by the time he gets up to check on Peter and Molly the two walk out hand in hand, the soft smile on Peter's face almost blinding her to the trust shown in the girl's eyes. As he gently guides her to Mohinder's side his eyes are shining; they're not exactly triumphant but it's a hell of a lot better than his wailing despair last night.

Peter strides first to her dad then turns to face her, determination palpable in every movement. "I'm ready to find Nathan. I know where he is."

* * *

  
They become three again as they part ways with Mohinder and Molly. Claire doesn't know what Peter and Molly talked about and doesn't care, whatever the girl said he's clearly ready to embrace the power she's inadvertently given to him in order to find his brother. 

Time's running short; they bid Mohinder and Molly goodbye, Mohinder determined to remain in New York as long as there's danger of Molly's other hero not making it through the night. He knows he's as powerless to prevent death and destruction as any of them but embraces the task head on anyway. Claire's glad that Molly has at least one person who's willing to protect her.

So they get back in their rental car, a car that's seen a lot of miles considering it was only rented a week ago. She thinks back to the last time she was in the car before escaping in it with her dad; she'd run from Peter thinking he'd betrayed her. Only now she knows that had never been a possibility, never will be and she can't help but think that if she hadn't run from him, if she had trusted him, would things have turned out the way they did?

"Hey." Peter catches her, curiously nips her elbow to get her attention. She'd been staring listlessly at the landscape trundling past her while her dad takes the first shift and she starts a little at the touch. Jolts her like an electric shock which makes him grin a little bashfully as he carefully withdraws his hand. "Don't think that."

"Did you just –"

"Sorry. I didn't mean to." She shakes her head ruefully, decides it's an uphill battle she doesn't want to win. As far as she's concerned Peter's open to come into her head any time, why bother telling him to stop? After what she's seen, what they've been through, did they have any more secrets to spill to each other?

Maybe some, but she doesn't think about it. Besides, her dad's staring oddly at them staring at each other and it's a staring contest with no discernible goal and so she breaks it, beams up at her dad in all his spectacled glory. "How long is it going to take to get to Birmingham?"

Molly's gift should end up saving Nathan's life because after his talk with Molly Peter's sure his brother's in Birmingham, Alabama. A quick Google search reveals that the address Peter senses is the UAB Hospital; according to Mohinder it's a teaching hospital for the University of Alabama. Every one breathes a sigh of relief to the news, albeit in different ways. It means Nathan could still be alive; no one points out the obvious that all hospitals have morgues and depending how badly he was hurt it's also equally likely Nathan's lying on a cold slab labelled as John Doe.

Peter closes his eyes once in a while and she thinks she knows why, rather, feels she knows why. He's pausing to check on Nathan's location, convinced that if he doesn't he'll lose track of his brother again, maybe for the last time.

She'd asked Peter in all seriousness about literally flying them to Alabama. His expression had faltered but then a smile had fractured his seriousness, playfully pulling her ponytail. "I think both you and your dad might be a little heavy for me."

"I'm not ready to trust my life to you yet." Her dad had chimed in. "No offence."

It's just after lunch when Peter insists he take his turn behind the wheel and her dad relents, hiding a yawn in the process. Claire briefly thinks of throwing a tantrum about being shut out of the driving just to alleviate the boredom, but decides it's rather fun riding shotgun. Besides, the steady rolling of the landscape as they melt into an indistinguishable whole is soothing enough to almost lull her to sleep.

The radio plays softly in the background, she wants to laugh because it's easy listening for who she imagines is people over 30 and it's odd thinking that about Peter. She knows he's old enough to be her uncle so why does it surprise her to learn that he's got a guilty penchant for golden oldies?

"They're not golden oldies." He interrupts the easy silence with a smirk.

"You're just old." Claire taunts back, enjoying the light reaching his hazel eyes.

"It's called being in my prime."

"You're over 25, which is almost 30!"

"That's not old."

She ignores him. "You're old."

"Am not! You take that back, squirt."

"I'm not a squirt!"

"You're small enough to be an oompa loompa."

She sticks her tongue out at him in outrage. "Did you just call me an oompa loompa?"

His tone's contrite, but the sparkle never leaves his eyes. "Well, they're cute aren't they?"

"They're also really small and fat."

"They're chubby. And cute." He amends quickly. "So I guess … I just called you cute?"

He's grinning from ear to ear now, which goads her all the more. "Am not."

"So … you're not cute?"

"I didn't say that."

"So you are cute?"

"That's so not the point and if you don't stop teasing me I'll start calling you old Uncle Pete from now on!"

He pretends to think about it, which inexplicably pushes all the wrong buttons. "As long as you don't call me old." He finally says with a smirk.

"That's because you are. Why deny the truth?"

"You're just immature."

"Are not!"

"Children." Her dad surprises them by interrupting; she thought he'd been lulled into a well deserved nap a while ago. He sighs. "I can't believe I just said that." Grabs his temples as he stretches out on the backseat. "Let an old man get some rest, please."

Their conversation approaches more mature levels after that, and soon it's actually Claire's turn behind the wheel. Neither her dad nor Peter questions her place in the roster and she's struck again by how they've tacitly accepted her role in this; whatever 'this' is she doesn't know but she's proud to be included; feels like she's playing with the grown ups now.

It's a 15 to 16 hour drive from New York to Birmingham and they have to finally give themselves, if not the rental car, a well earned break. They're all groggy from lack and sleep when they find themselves in a nondescript highway diner around dinner time no one has to give it another moment's thought to get some coffee and basic food.

They haven't eaten since a very late breakfast (or early lunch, depending on how Claire chooses to think of it) and are tired and exhausted. Peter especially is showing signs of wear and tear which isn't surprising considering only a few days ago he'd been adrift in the Atlantic ocean. Claire doesn't want to admit it but she's finding it tough as well, her mind simply isn't used to keeping up such a breakneck pace.

But what can they do? Finding Nathan's her mission now; finding her biological father alive and bringing him back to his family is the least she can do to repay him.

The red and white linoleum floor reminds her of another such diner they'd passed; on their way in or out of New York she can't quite recall. Everything's being jumbled with fatigue, and when the sour faced waitress pours them cups of steaming hot coffee, it's all she can do to not gulp the entire thing down with too much haste while her dad excuses himself to use the bathroom.

She looks up, finds Peter staring, dark eyes drifting down the length of her face. Quickly she runs a hand over her cheek, notes her skin's pretty dry but hey, it's not like she's had any time to pick up any moisturiser lately, or do anything remotely normal. "What? Do I have something weird on my face? "

That crooked smile – she'll forever think of that as Peter's smile – is there again, brightens his expression. He shakes his head, averts his eyes ruefully. "I was just thinking."

He takes a careful sip of his coffee; stares at her some more and his intensity's getting a little discomforting. "And? You were thinking …?"

He laughs. "I was thinking about … how young you are."

She'd been expecting thoughts of a more momentous nature like saving the world or being nice to your family and so this just surprises her. It's very different to the easy banter they'd shared in the car only a few hours ago. "Okay …" Has to pause to compose her thoughts, gives him a smile that her dad's always described as being capable of lighting up an entire auditorium. "That's not a surprise. I've always been 16. You know, until next year when I turn 17. And just so you know, I'm expecting a huge present, enough to make up for missing all my other birthdays."

"No, I just … I was just remembering about before. Before I …" He doesn't or can't finish the sentence and Claire can't blame him. "Before. I kept pushing and pushing about you being here to save the world, I –" He laughs bitterly, turns his head away, finally resting on his hands cupping his coffee. "I even told Nathan you were here to save the world. And here you are, you're – you're 16 years old."

She laughs it off, but knows he sees through it; the pretence that what they're doing is nothing special, when it really is. "And your point is …?"

"I'm supposed to protect you, not drag you into all this craziness." It's not clear whether he's referring to the explosion, his dreams, or something else or everything. "And now your life's ruined and all you seem to do is save me. Me. I'm 26 years old and I need you to save me. It isn't fair."

Claire's heart skips a beat, or so it seems to her in retrospect but she's got going to dwell on the fact that Peter needs her; needs her to save him. She's about to reply but then her dad's voice cuts through their conversation, sharp and intelligent as always.

"I think Claire can handle herself just fine." They both turn, Peter's expression more guilt ridden than startled. Her dad slides next to her, takes off his glasses wearily. "We need to eat. We're about 3 hours from Birmingham."

Her eyes flicker over to Peter's; they're large and bright, no longer murky but shining with depth she can't quite get to the bottom of.

It's fine that she doesn't know, so she shrugs the mystery off. Soon their food comes and they all busy themselves with the mundane reality of eating. They have to keep their strength up, because none of them know what lies ahead.


	10. Part Ten

**Part Ten**

No matter how desperate she is to get to Nathan – if not for her own sake then for Peter's – nothing prepares her for the moment her dad pulls into the nondescript driveway of Birmingham's premier hospital and parks in one of the visitor spots. 

It's a little before midnight and the eerie silence sends shivers up her spine; jarring against the soft hope rising in their hearts. 

Casual chatter ceased less than an hour ago, when her dad had announced in a sudden break between banter they were nearing the UBA. She'd seen Peter's eyes close, his entire body rigid and tense, and all dialogue had died. 

Claire glances over to Peter seated as still as a statue next to her. He can't see her face but if he'd turned just a little he would have seen she's still full of secret guilt. She can't shake off the responsibility of being the cheerleader that'd propelled Peter and Nathan down this path, can't shake the fact dogging every step that she'd been the catalyst to all this madness. 

About half an hour ago she'd grabbed his hand to steady crumbling nerves – or maybe he'd grabbed hers, she can't be sure – and hadn't let go since. He's warm; the source of comfort and reassurance in the face of whatever they're about to find. She never wants to let him go; feels a vast emptiness when he slips out of her grasp to start gnawing at his nails. 

She can't get Nathan out of her mind, the moment when she'd been about to pull the trigger to end Peter's life, and then suddenly Nathan had appeared. Even in the tranquillity of her hindsight it seems like a split second later she's in her real dad's arms, watching with gnawing dread at a man exploding in a clear night sky. 

She'd been about to pull the trigger on Peter; she can't lie to herself in this moment of truth. If Nathan had arrived just a moment later, the hand she's holding now would be cold instead of warm and she can't stand it. The thought hurts her physically as they drag themselves out of the car, sick with worry and dread and fear of what they'll find. 

Is this how tenuous life really is? As indestructible as Peter is, he's still vulnerable, able to be extinguished in a blink of an eye. If a man hadn't loved his younger brother enough; if a niece had cared less about her uncle, the future – the present – could have been so different. 

Claire shudders just thinking of it but Peter mistakes it for the chill of the night. He gentlemanly offers his jacket but she shrugs it off; Angela had foisted yet another tailor made coat for Claire to replace the one she'd lost before everything went to hell in a hand basket. Say what she wants, but her biological grandmother has excellent taste in clothing. 

They're like the three musketeers as they stroll to the front desk to enquire about John Does and radiation burns and injuries. Claire sees Peter visibly wince at the mention of morgues; but her concentration's pretty evenly divided between how skilfully her dad's manipulating information out of the nurse without actually giving anything away and watching Peter fidget in nervous prostration. 

Senses how the uncertainty must figuratively be killing him from the inside out; knows it from their dream how awful living with his fear and guilt is. Without thought of odd looks and consequences she slips her arm through his, squeezes his hand like it's the most natural thing in the world. Which it is if they're dreaming but they're not, they're in Birmingham hoping to find a brother and father if not well, then at least alive and breathing. 

If he thinks it's strange she's reaching to comfort him he doesn't show it beyond hooking his arm around her shoulders, drawing her into an embrace. It's odd and exhilarating being this close to him, physically anyway, but she doesn't dwell on it. 

Doesn't think about how her heart jumps irregularly but then forgets in the next instant when they untangle arms and shoulders. He's gazing at her like a deer caught in headlights, wide, dark eyes that mirror midnight and although Claire's never seen an actual deer caught that way she thinks it's probably how they would look. 

She blinks and time stills and really she doesn't know what to think, what to feel, except how close they are and will be and god, she's not making any sense but she doesn't care. 

Realises then their intimacy doesn't come from dreams, it's not why they're so close. They share a connection that's hard to quantify or describe, and the dreams are just another facet. 

It's a deep thought that squeezes her heart and for a moment it's like he's about to say something, but then they return to Earth at precisely the same moment and she forgets how their connection's like a chasm that has no end. 

She knows his attention's caught the same time as hers because both their eyebrows shoot to the heavens when the words "John Doe" and "third degree burns" come out of the matron's mouth. 

Soon her dad's leading them to the elevator and pressing level 4 (the intensive care unit Claire reads with a sinking heart) and Peter's back to being withdrawn and edgy. If possible his expression's gloomier and darker and it's like a doppelganger's replaced the sweet man who'd been standing with her just a moment ago. 

She needs to distract herself from worrying about her uncle of all people, so she concentrates on her dad's back as he strides confidently to Room 418. They round the corner and they're suddenly there, the journey that'd begun with Peter only a few days ago may end now. Without a moment's pause her dad spins and meets her eyes, opens the door in one smooth motion. 

Claire forgets everything in that moment, forgets worry, tension, irrationality, feelings and heartbeats skipping. Reaches out only to find her hand's already been taken in one of Peter's, feels his racing heart as they face the possible end of their search. 

* * *

The monitor's beeping oh so regularly. The steady rhythm seems to mock their odyssey, question their trepidation as they gaze down in synchronicity at "John Doe". 

Claire almost doesn't dare to look but she's horribly drawn to it, can't help but satisfy morbid curiosity about whether her connection to her uncle and their dreams and instincts amounts to something real and tangible to grasp onto when future seeds of doubt spring. 

She looks and her face falls; breathing becoming even more laboured and irregular. 

It's him, it's Nathan, her biological father, in the flesh. 

As soon as she thinks of flesh she wants to gag, so intensely bandaged is he that she has no trouble imagining how badly burned he must have been. In another lifetime she might have thought he resembles a really well dressed mummy but she can't even think that now, feels like retching just having that thought flying recklessly through her mind. It sullies what Nathan's accomplished for them, sullies her regard for him and she wants to take back every bad thought she'd had in her entire life. Wants to take back the rock she'd thrown at him in Kermit, thinks in some way if she can take that back it may help him, somehow. 

It doesn't help that the faint stench of ointment and medicated creams and whatever the doctors have prescribed for Nathan is assaulting her senses; doesn't help her to see the miles of tubing that seem to run from his body to the monitors or that his eyes are resolutely closed and he's not showing any signs of life whatsoever. 

Doesn't help to see that the sum of heroism leads to lifeless nothing. 

She reels from seeing him like this and she wants to cower from it. It's not the same feeling as when she'd first laid eyes on Peter against the midnight waters of the Atlantic; she doesn't want to rush to Nathan and save him, but run away, far from all of this drama. She doesn't need it, she can't help him like she did Peter. 

One person who doesn't run of course is Peter. Claire watches silently as he rushes and embraces his brother, careful to not disturb strategically placed dressing over his prone body. She fixes her eyes on her dad only to find his calm ones trained on her; perceptive and knowledgeable and calm and just willing to be there for her to lean on. 

Claire crosses over to him and he envelopes her into a hug; allows her to sink into his arms and sob silently. She can't do this, she can't watch Peter's hope die when she feels hers dying too. It suffocates her and she can't breathe. 

She can't breathe but she's feeling too much. So she takes the coward's way out; she runs sobbing out of the room without a backward glance to comfort her hero. 

* * *

To say that Claire's surprised when Peter creeps into the empty room on level 3 where she's decided to hide is an understatement would not have been out of order. By this time she's run out of tears to shed; huddled like a child of Molly's age in the corner with knees drawn tightly to her chest, cowering from the harsh realities of the world. 

She'd long forgotten the sensation of salty rivers flowing over her cheeks, forgets the taste of them as they trickled then poured over her nose and lips and down past her chin. She's sits and stares unseeing at the steel legs of the sterile bed in front of her. Perhaps if she's quiet enough the world will forget about her and the craziness will stop and she can't deal with this, not now. 

She's been replaying her life scene by scene ever since that day in her room with Jackie, punching her arm through a glass cabinet yet she'd healed from it pretty much right away. Tries to figure out how her life got from then to now but can't, so she tries again and again. 

Peter's hands gently closing around hers only registers because of his touch; sends warmth into her, his empathy seeping through her skin to whatever lies beneath. He's crouching in front of her but she doesn't look at him; it's only when he tilts her face up and cups her face with his other hand that her eyes are drawn to his, and the feelings she sees shocks her back to reality. 

Her eyes shine with unshed tears again but it's okay now because her hero's here. It's okay that her nose is running, mixing with tears and she's a blotchy mess and was an idiot for running away from her family when they probably need her the most. It's okay because Peter's here and his warmth is all she needs to rescue her from the dark vortex she'd almost been sucked into. 

He's looking at her with such an odd expression, it's sad yet hopeful but conflicted at the same time and it's just strange; she can't understand why but it sucks what breath she has left out of her body. She feels light-headed as emotion washes through her; blinks a few times to clear her head. Doesn't know what's happening but knows the most important thing is this moment. 

And so she closes her eyes, trusts his presence because he's like a balm to her. Doesn't re-open her eyes when she feels what she knows are soft raven tendrils brush over her cheeks, feels his breath warm against her face and neck, his forehead gently leaning against hers like a pillar of strength and goodness. 

"I'm okay." She finally manages to whisper and she opens her eyes; her vision swimming so full is it of Peter's dark orbs staring intensely into hers. Feels his sharp intake of breath and it's like he's about to say something, but catches himself and smiles instead. 

They're both sniffling in the aftermath, he's smiling bravely and if she can't quite manage one back at him, it's fine for now. He gives her a chaste kiss, stands and offers his hand to help her up. 

Claire doesn't think; just reaches out to take her uncle's hand and trusts that he's enough to keep her together for both their sakes. 


	11. Part Eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

Claire's meltdown is an embarrassing episode she wants to forget pretty quickly and so she's grateful both her dad and Peter don't allude to it when she finally finds the courage to sidle quietly back into Nathan's room. Her shame faced smile is just on the wrong side of a grimace but the three men don't so much as twitch because the doctor's just started filling Peter and her dad in on Nathan's condition.

She tries to concentrate on the portly doctor's words but her mind's still racing at a hundred miles an hour. But she ends up processing most of the information anyway; things like his condition being serious but stable isn't so much a surprise as a confirmation of their intermediate fears. The real question taunting everyone is how he got to Birmingham from New York; it's is a mystery for which they have no answers.

Nathan's got third degree burns to over fifty percent of his body as well as traces of radiation burns, which puzzles the doctor. They have no nuclear facilities in Alabama of course but he surmises Nathan may have come into contact with radioactive material somehow, in enough quantities to cause some but not lasting damage; and that's where Claire stops processing information but knows her dad's likely all this in. He's nodding thoughtfully like they just hadn't followed a trail of broken dreams at the whim of a wayward daughter; he's so calm in the midst of all this craziness it almost makes her scream.

Peter looks increasingly stricken but luckily (is it really luck at this point?) the doctor doesn't seem to notice, his attention's trained squarely onto her dad. He's probably just grateful to finally have someone to explain all this madness to. If only he knows just how mad their lives are, and what kind of vortex he's inadvertently being dragged into.

"Do you know who this man is?" The doctor's understandably curious but she only half listens to her dad's reply.

Because she's busy watching in horrid fascination as Peter's face falls incrementally moment by moment, desperate hope thrashing in dying throes and it's so excruciating to witness it curdles her insides; feel like they're smouldering from the inside out. The worst thing for Claire – if there is a worst thing – is seeing him crumble oh so quietly, light dimming into darkness. No hysterics or histrionics and scarily for him, no emotion whatsoever at hearing the prognosis that in all likelihood Nathan will be dead within the week.

She can't help but gasp at the news delivered by the doctor standing in front of them with such kindly eyes; made so many thousand times worse when she involuntarily glimpses Peter's crestfallen face, defeat spreading like a virus. It freezes her blood; there's a lump in her throat that suffocates her and it's all she can do to bring her arms to her sides. She hugs herself because the world seems so empty and unjust and it's just so entirely _wrong_, that a good man who sacrificed himself to save. New York will die that heroe's death.

"I'm sorry. If you know where – or who – his family is, you should contact them. He … doesn't have long."

"We're his family." Her dad's heaping yet another lie on top of the countless ones he's already told since they stepped foot inside the hospital, velvet tongue smoothing the rocky road of reality. Even through unshed tears she shoots a sharp glance at him but his expression doesn't give anything away. It's like he's been prepared for the doctor's questions; Claire's sure of it the next moment when he continues effortlessly describing a fabricated reality where they're all one big, happy family. "We're his family. I'm … we're his brothers. This is my daughter."

She feels his strong hand on her shoulder, feels his strength; hopes Peter somehow feels it too. "We've just come from New York, we … our mother –" There's a sharp intake of breath that makes both Claire and her dad glance sharply at Peter, but by this time he's studiously ignoring them, crossing over to stare listlessly out of the window into inky jet darkness. "Our mother heard from someone about a man with radiation burns. We came to see … whether it was really him."

Claire can't bear to look the doctor in the face; even understanding why it's necessary to lie their way through this, she's surprised to find it's actually painful not being able to claim Nathan as her biological father. It's like her dad's her real dad but Nathan's a part of her too; he's also what ties her to Peter in the least important sense but it's still something she's loathe to discard.

The doctor looks on with eyes spilling with sympathy in the deadening silence; misinterprets it as a family filling to the brim with grief. When he quickly excuses himself to continue rounds no one but her dad bats an eye; Peter's too busy lost in his private hell and she's cast adrift by everything's that happened over the past week, drowning in a rip.

She'd been a cheerleader worrying about being popular, sneaking out to football games to claim her rightful crown at Homecoming. She's seen her hero explode, her dad take a bullet for her, her biological father make the ultimate sacrifice to spare his family the ultimate torment. How does this ending, or anything else make sense?

It doesn't; she's not surprised to feel hot, fresh tears sting her eyes as they flow down her face. It's like her entire world's made of sand and it's crumbling ever so gently right in front of her. Rescuing Peter wasn't an act of heroism or fate or destiny but merely saved him for a fresh torrent of grief – watching his brother take his last, painful breath.

She feels like retching and instinctively grabs the nearest thing to steady weak knees, but her dad anticipates her need. So when she reels physically from realisation of Nathan's fate he's there to catch her crumbling body, hold her tightly like he's sure he's never going to let her go.

She only relaxes for what seems like a split second, allowing her dad to shoulder her mounting burden, but it's enough time for her to discard another. Even with perfect hindsight she never manages to quite forgive herself this one moment of weakness.

As she turns to see how Peter's taking the news, she knows what he's about to do. She can't help him, not this time, can't help her hero as his soul's being shredded into infinite pieces. Claire watches helplessly as he flees and melts like mist in the morning sunlight, doesn't even have the presence of mind to call after him into empty, sterilised air.

* * *

She knows he's still in the hospital somewhere; knows Peter will die before abandoning Nathan again to whatever fate has in store for him. Knows he's around because she still feels him, but can't quite explain this to her dad as they walk back down to the ground floor for the second time in an aborted attempt to locate her missing uncle. 

"Are you sure he's still here?" Her dad's understandably dubious, but he doesn't understand, doesn't understand her connection with Peter isn't about seeing and touching. She doesn't need to see him standing in front of her to know he's there, although at this point it'd be a nice change, if only to cure her anxiety for his welfare.

"I'm sure dad." She tries not to grit her teeth but knows her frustration's seeping out anyway. Knows Peter's disappearance isn't entirely her fault because he's a grown man and should be able to take care of himself, not run away like an immature brat.

It's only then she realises she's well and truly annoyed and mad – at him. For abandoning her to this mess, and why can't he just not use his powers at a time like this? She's sure invisibility is great and fun and probably the ultimate weapon in a game of hide and never seek, but why can't he not hide from them – from her – when he needs her the most?

She's not being reasonable so she forces herself to a stop. Takes a long, lingering breath, presses her back against the sickly peach walls but her knees crumble and she sinks down onto the floor in momentary defeat.

"Okay." Her dad continues to stare but then whips out his cell phone and dials. Claire watches in curiosity in the ensuing pause until she realises what he's about to and rejoices.

Her dad – her wonderful dad – appears to be the only rational person around; Claire once again exults he's with her in this quest. Without him they never would've found Nathan; without him, neither she nor Peter would be alive to face whatever they need to face in the coming hours.

She laps up her dad's side of the conversation with Mohinder, knows the long pause is to allow Molly to locate Peter. Claire marvels at her dad's resourcefulness and looks up at him in the harsh fluorescent light; knows then she'll admire him to her dying day.

When he hangs up she jumps up eagerly, purpose renewed and freshly alight. "He's on the roof."

As soon as the words tumble from his mouth Claire's flying to the lift, inadvertently elbows a woman and small boy out of the way in her haste. Apologises with an embarrassed smile once they're all inside but doesn't dwell on it because her only thought is to get to Peter, any way she can.

Her dad's hand quietly closes on her shoulder before he steps out at level 4. "I'm going to contact Mrs Petrelli. Let her know Nathan's still alive."

Claire has to squeeze her eyes shut briefly, to linger on the word 'still'. Nods though and knows how subtle her dad's being; it's not by accident but design he's allowing her to go to Peter on her own. In an odd way it somehow vindicates their connection – not just hers and Peters but her dad and hers too.

He nods as the door closes and she thinks – feels rather – how much her dad now trusts her to do the right thing, help save the world or a man's life; one just as important as the other.

* * *

Although it seems like she's been wandering around the hospital forever and a day it's still hours before dawn. When she's finally able to yank open the stubborn door at the top of the stairs leading to the roof it's still so cold and the wind so crisp she begins shuddering uncontrollably. Angela's coat isn't helping very much, the night chill's making her teeth chatter but she braves the vast emptiness anyway in search of her missing hero. 

She has every confidence she's going to find him, she's done it before. Crossed half way across the country to discover he's not just her hero but her uncle; crossed time and space and everything in between to rescue him from the brink of death.

They have a connection; she knows she needs to use it. So she closes her eyes, tries to concentrate not on the wind tugging furiously at her hair or the crazy chattering of her teeth but on Peter's kind face, gentle soul, those eyes framed by bangs that look into hers and recognises how he _knows _her, knew her before they even met.

"Peter, I know you're there." It feels a little silly talking into empty air, but if he's invisible she can't see him anyway, so what's the point scanning the horizon? "Come on, you can't hide forever. Nathan needs you. I need you."

She has an awkward sense of déjà vu, recognises in the next instant how her words mimic those spoken in their last dream. There'd been wind and bitterness and a sense of defeat then too, and she'd talked him out of it.

This is a path they've tread before; likely will tread again. The universe's so random and crazy and mixed up sometimes it's hard to comprehend just how interwoven destinies can be. The way she's able to reach out and pick Peter up off the floor, literally or figuratively, the way he's able to draw her back from the brink of darkness, it's inexplicable and mystifying but seems so very, very right.

She tries again and again. She's patient, never lets tension creep into her voice, trusts that she's some sort of beacon to him in his time of darkness. "I'm here if you need me." And still there's silence, but it's discordant and aches with pain, a symphony of sorrow trailing in its wake. She feels it because he's near, somewhere, sorrow and grief rolling off in invisible waves. "Peter, please don't do this. Please don't hide from me."

Wind, bluff and blustering, is the only response she gets. She soon gets tired of repeating herself, tired not for her own sake but for his. Decides to take desperate action and this is something she knew she'd have to try sometime.

Without a moment's hesitation, she calmly walks over to the ledge. Doesn't bother looking over the side as a signal or anything that melodramatic. She does however open her arms wide just because she's about to experience the sensation of flying for the first time and wants to be Supergirl or Wonder Woman or whoever's capable of flying, she wants to be that girl, just for a moment –

– Before toppling over the edge into darkness.

It's not even a second later when strong arms close around her and she's sinking into Peter's chest with a breathless little hitch that's half triumphant and half exhilaration. It's a tactless ploy but she was getting cold, losing sensation in her fingertips and really, is it too much to ask him to show himself on a night like this? "Took you long enough."

He looks at her strangely, she feels solid muscles shifting as they bear the full force of her weight as he floats them higher and higher, until it seems they're closer to the moon than the ground. His eyes glint with tension and darkness and it's not quite menace nor anger but something else entirely, something so primal it sets his eyes on fire. "Don't ever try to do that again Claire."

She hears the remonstrance in his voice, deep and dark but she sticks her chin out in full imitation of the family stubbornness. "If you don't go disappearing on people who care about you, I wouldn't _have _to."

"I needed time alone."

"So did I before. But you came and got me anyway."

He must know she's got a point because he ignores perfectly good logic. "You were upset. How can I just let you go?"

His voice is almost petulant. She hears this, knows he's recovering from whatever irrationality that'd driven him to the roof. "Exactly." They're floating higher and higher in bursts now; each little jump to the next altitude makes her shiver more in excitement. Peter mistakes it for the cold, frowns at her through his bangs, wraps his arms tighter around her shoulders and thighs. Securing her more firmly to him and she resists the urge to nestle into his arms, curl up and go to sleep because his body's so warm and inviting, and safe.

"Cold?" Claire shakes her head mutely, unwilling to give him any reason to stop this endless flight. She's glad through all the craziness over the past weeks that she's found something that excites her again, giddy like the school girl she'd been.

But he's insisting, with all his patented Petrelli stubbornness. "You're cold."

"I'm not."

"Then why are you shivering?"

"I'm excited. It's –" Stops suddenly because she knows how young and naïve she'll sound but says it anyway because it's Peter and he knows her; she's got nothing to hide from him. "It's exciting. Flying." Adds a tad too breathlessly. "I love it."

"I had to think of Nathan. To fly." He murmurs into her hair and they're levelling out now, plateauing in the stillness. There's nothing but Peter's arms and empty air beneath her yet she feels safe, so safe from the realities of the world.

"Does he like it? Flying I mean."

He cocks his head, the way he always does when he's giving real thought to something and it's silly she notices even that much. "I think he does. He pretends it's a burden, but I think – I _know_ – he loves it as much as I do."

She doesn't ask how he knows because – well, she already does because he does. "It's awesome. Really awesome." And even though Nathan's prognosis is so grave, she can't help but burst into a smile, sweetness and light mingling with innocence she hasn't quite yet lost.

The grin that breaks out onto dimmed features makes her heart sing; if she hadn't already been floating it would've made her do so. It's like he's walked through fire and hasn't been burned, not that much at least and relief washes over her to see the light back in his eyes. There's still grief and sorrow and trauma but they can deal with that, together.

"Thank you." He says softly; there's no mistaking what he's thanking her for. It's on the tip of her tongue to say it isn't necessary but it'd be mere formality; if it makes him feel better to thank her, she's fine with that. "We should go back down." There's regret in his voice which is strange but understandable because their flight is a welcome relief from a possible future without Nathan.

They return quickly to Nathan's room, finds it empty. Moonlight streams through tiny slits in the blinds and her biological dad looks so peaceful on the bed, it's easier now to believe he's not suffering any pain at the moment.

There's an empty bed in the room freshly made with hospital corners; she figures she might as well use it and so without another moment's thought hops onto it, kicks off her shoes. Her small feet dangle over the side; she looks up to find Peter staring slightly slack jawed, eyes locked in thought. They dart to Nathan's slumbering form, then to the uncomfortable wooden chair neatly placed beside him then back to her again.

She rolls her eyes for dramatic effect and shifts over, looks at him pointedly. "Come _on_ Peter, don't be stupid. It's not like we're sharing for kicks." Rolls her eyes again at his gentlemanly hesitation, tosses a thin blanket that's more likely bed linen and ducks under the covers, arranges it neatly over her. "My dad's going to be back any minute, don't be so _old_. If you rather take the chair, be my guest."

She makes a show of turning her back on him, settles onto the bed then stills. There's a gentle creaking and it's like he's testing the comfort level of the awful chair next to Nathan's bed; either that or he's checking his brother for signs of life. Regardless a moment later there's another creak, a hasty few steps then she feels him sink into the bed next to her, careful still to keep his distance.

Even with carefully constructed air between them she's able to feel his warmth, warmth that seems to radiate off his body. She deliberately elbows him and finds his chest, smiles into the darkness at his indignant exclamation. "Watch it squirt."

"Not a squirt." Elbows him again just for the heck of it. "Male nurse."

He pokes her waist, making her jump because he's hit her tickle spot. "Oompa loompa."

"Old man."

Silence, but she can almost hear his smile. "Go to sleep."

So Claire closes her eyes, and sleeps.

* * *

_Authors Note: Just a quick to say a huge thank you to the reviews and comments for this story so far. When I started the story it was really just a rambling reaction fic to the final scenes in How to Stop An Exploding Man, but thanks to everyone's encouragement it really has become more. So ... thanks! _


	12. Part Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

She's not at surprised to wake in yet another dream. Calmness and serenity washes over her; it's like coming home after a long, wretched absence thirsting for that final piece of home. 

Smiles when she feels Peter behind her, hands lingering around her waist before withdrawing respectfully. "You're not surprised, are you?" 

"How can I be?" She's only smirking, not giggling which is what she really wants to do, but she can't bring herself to break the crystalline silence. 

The dreamscape's so beautiful this time; shafts of pearly moonlight washes over a sandy, grainy beach. It's inky midnight but not at all dark or frightening; the only feeling Claire has is being safe and warm. She knows it's probably Peter that's having this effect on her but doesn't dwell too much on it; loves the coolness of the breeze as it laps over golden hued skin; she's a girl of sunlight but doesn't mind the dark now that she's not alone. 

He nips her shoulder playfully, trails feather light fingers over arms that end up tickling her. "I'm glad you're here." 

"So am I." 

"You always save me." 

"I always will." 

It's something that's been said before, but bears repeating and it's not something that can be said too often if she's honest with herself. 

"We need to find a way to save him." He's quietly determined, yet lost. 

"I know." She breathes into cool night air, stares in wonder at the vastness of the ocean in front of her. It's so empty and blank she wonders why it's not scaring her but comes to the same conclusion she did a moment ago; it's because Peter's here and when her hero's with her everything's always going to be all right. 

She turns and the wind whips her hair, teases them into golden tendrils that spiral into the night. Catches an odd glint in Peter's eyes as his gaze lingers on that golden trail before it returns, as sedate as before, onto her. "I just need to know how." 

"We'll find a way." She's about to say something else, about where there's a will there's a way and he's a hero who'll find a way to save his brother because it's what he does, he saves people. But suddenly there's a flicker, an intrusive shadow coagulating into solid form. 

It's an older gentleman with smiling, kindly eyes, eyes that pierce her soul and looks straight into Peter; recognises him as a saviour of the world. Recognises what Claire sees and for that, she thinks she knows him although she's never met him before. 

Peter's a bundle of surprise but confirms her suspicions. "Charles?" He whispers, halts in mid-breath. 

Warm brown eyes crinkle and there's a deep, booming laugh. It reminds her of Santa Claus, or how she imagined Santa Claus to laugh when he stumbles upon milk and cookies by the hearth. "Glad to know you haven't quite forgotten about me yet." There's a shift and then those eyes focus on her, polished obsidian in the dark. "And you must be the cheerleader. You're just as I dreamed you'd be." 

How does anyone respond to such an opening? She can't, just stammers about only being a girl and Peter's niece and Nathan's daughter. He cuts her off, not unkindly, takes her hand into one of his worn brown ones. "You're much more than that Claire. You'll find out in time." 

Again with the stammering. "Oh … oh?" 

He nods, and now thoughtfulness tempers kindness. Unwittingly she and Peter get drawn to the older man's side, who's oddly fashioned a table and chair out of thin air as well as some tea and biscuits and the whole scene is eerily surreal and quite out of the ordinary, to say the least. "Sit and have some tea." 

Even for one of Peter's dreams, the turn of events is truly bizarre. Claire cocks an eyebrow at Peter, who shrugs slightly before sitting down. She's in his dream so takes his lead, sits daintily like her mom taught her to with visitors and reaches automatically for the delicate cup brimming with hot tea. "Charles, what's … what're you doing here?" 

It's the old man's turn to cock an eyebrow, though he's smiling gently at their confusion. "What do you think Peter? I'm here to deliver a message." 

Something like anger flares, takes over his face just for a second. But Claire catches it, and she doesn't doubt Charles did too. "Like last time? I can save the world with _love_?" 

"You did save the world with love. Saved New York at least. It's a start." Reaches out with a plate of biscuits and pastries, arranged perfectly in symmetry on fine china, obtrusively opulent against the natural beauty around her. 

"I got my brother killed, that's what I did!" This time anger doesn't just flare, it explodes and for a second she thinks she actually sees sparks shooting from hands that'd been so gentle just a moment ago. Corrects herself because she _knows _she saw flames; he's entirely capable of actually exploding with Ted's power. "He's dying because of _me_!" 

There's just enough anguish to make her jump, but before she can reach across to steady him Charles is there. "He's not going to die." His message is delivered ever so calmly, as if it's a fact and not a wish, the past instead of hesitant future. 

It takes the wind out of Peter's anger though, spectacularly so. It's enough to deflate him entirely and he sinks back into the chair, limply. "He's not?" 

"Not if you and Claire can help it." 

There's a long, stretched moment of stunned silence while Peter glances over to Claire who stares back with doe eyed wonder back; then they both gaze in questioning, accusing hope at the old man with the serene aura watching them. 

She's the first to find her voice and it's small and frail in the thin air. "And – how? How're we going to save Nathan?" 

Charles places his cup down slowly, almost reverently. "As I said to Peter before. With love." 

"Love?" Claire wants to throw something at the kindly old man sitting so serenely in the middle of the beach. Water and sand stretch as far as the eye can see, but he's sitting for all the world like he's dining with royalty. His chocolate brown eyes are so deep and filled with uncharted knowledge they almost make her believe that _is _the answer, that love's enough to save Nathan. 

But then she remembers – realises really – that it makes no sense. None of what he says makes sense and it makes her so angry her stomach starts clenching. This isn't a riddle or a game, it's two brothers' lives with hers mixed into the bargain. "That doesn't make any sense at all." 

"It will, when the time comes." 

Peter starts reddening at the older man's words again, expression a tornado crescendoing into momentum. "You told me that before. It didn't do any good. I exploded. God, I exploded and killed my brother!" 

"He's not dead yet." Charles replies with infuriating calmness. 

Claire's tempted to give him a good hard slap but he's kind of old and wise and as it is, it's Peter's dream and nothing can be accomplished with violence. Not really anyway and so she simmers down, satisfies herself by glaring at Charles. "It doesn't make any sense." She's repeating herself but can't say it any clearer than that. 

And Peter agrees, because they both wait for his answer; one that never comes because the next moment the old man's standing. Despite his age or rather the appearance of it his movements are quick and steady and before she knows it he's already strolling away, footsteps fading in the sand before either her or Peter have the presence of mind to give chase. 

"Wait. Charles wait." It's Peter who ups and follows him; it's now two sets of footprints melting into nothingness in front of her. "That can't be the answer. It can't be!" 

He doesn't reply; just continues strolling along the beach, farther and farther. Claire looks down and only just realises Peter's hands are in one of hers but the realisation's rushed when he starts tugging her along the beach, desperate to follow Charles. 

Realises then what Peter needs. "I need to –" 

"Go." She urges; lets go of his hand at the same instant. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something but his gaze says it all. She doesn't need to hear it and so she turns around and starts walking away, trusts he'll come back to her when he's ready. 

* * *

She starts back to consciousness, blinks in the pre-dawn light. All the dreaming she's been doing is fine and exhilarating and all but it's making her so tired; it's like she hasn't had any sleep at all since _it _happened and her entire body screams with fatigue. She shudders, is about to turn over onto her stomach but then realises where she is and more importantly, who she's with. 

Her entire body tingles and she knows why. She's curled neatly into Peter, nestled securely within the crook of his chest and body and in any other circumstance it'd be spooning but it's super icky to think of spooning and uncle in the same thought so she drops it pretty darn quickly. Rationalises how the night was chilly and they needed each other, needed the comfort to brace themselves for Nathan's decline. Needed to know they weren't alone in all of this, and even though Claire has her dad she knows Peter thinks he doesn't have anyone, and that's not true because he has her. 

He has her, and love is the answer. She doesn't know what it means and frankly, it's probably going to be Peter who figures it out. Hopes he'll be able to wrangle a few more pieces of the complex puzzle from Charles before he disappears back into the night. 

She's about to close her eyes but then there's a slight creak; harsh light streams into the room as the door opens. Her bangs are swept across her face, cloaking her eyes but she can still see clearly through them; sees enough to watch as her dad makes his way into the room; stops and stares. 

Stares at something – she can't quite see clearly enough – but does it long and hard and from her angle she thinks he's staring at her, but can't be sure. Peter's arm tenses, fingers grasping and finding hers and she feigns sleep, feigns it because she doesn't want to officially wake up and leave the serenity that soothes every crevice of loneliness within her. Feels slightly guilty for deceiving her dad this much but shuts her eyes and shifts against Peter. 

Even in the dim light she sees her dad frowning, taking a last lingering look at them before quietly closing the door.  



	13. Part Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

**  
**

Angela had come storming in earlier that morning, a whirlwind of impatience and frustration churning with defiance and regret. Claire had been sitting on the edge of the bed while Peter still slept, fixing her hair into a ponytail. Her biological grandmother had burst into room followed closely by her dad, taken one look at Nathan, thin and pale and unmoving and had then rushed to his side. Somehow at the same time Peter awoke and between startled exclamations, recriminations and hissed comments between mother and son, Claire didn't know what to do with herself or what to think. 

Then all hell had broken loose; one moment she swore Peter's eyes started to burn with anger and the next they're extinguished by a feeble wheeze. It wasn't the sound but the source; the prone form lying at the centre of the room swathed in bandages. 

"Oh my god." 

"Nathan." They exclaimed. 

And like they weren't in the middle of a fight or total destruction of a tender relationship they both rushed to Nathan's side, Angela albeit much more sedately than Peter. Claire's sure Nathan's almost crushed by Peter's onslaught and though much more subdued, Angela's relief was at least passionate enough to convince Claire that her grandmother did in fact, love Nathan to her very core. 

Her dad had quietly ushered her out of the room after calling for a doctor, Claire understanding the Petrellis needed time with Nathan. The unbidden thought is that they needed the time to say goodbye but it's too sad to think about so she discards it pretty quickly, trails obediently after her dad to the cafeteria. 

She cups slightly chilly hands around the mug of hot cocoa; cocoa because she's decided she's had enough coffee to last a lifetime and she doesn't need any more jarring energy in her body. There's enough there with Angela's sudden presence and Nathan's consciousness against all odds and all she wants to do now is stop, and rest. 

She glances at her plate of waffles and smiles feebly; they're her usual Sunday morning treat and it reminds her painfully of her old life where her mom made Sunday breakfast and her dad read the newspaper while she and Lyle bickered over who got the last waffle or pancake. 

"You're not hungry?" When she shakes herself out of the reverie his eyes look still and steady into hers. 

She shakes her head, gathers knife and fork in her hands and starts eating. "Course I am. It's just …" 

"Nathan." He finishes quietly, swallowing coffee silently. 

"It's so sad." She forces a mouthful of waffles with maple syrup through dry lips, washes it down with cocoa. "I wish I could do something." 

There's a tense silence which Claire doesn't understand. "He'll be all right, you know." 

Startled, she looks up. "What do you mean? I thought the doctor said –" 

He waves her confusion aside. "Not Nathan. Peter." 

Suddenly the tense silence, the wary eyes, start making sense. He's worried about her, the effect Peter's grief will have on her. 

Her eyes widen and she blinks rapidly, as a shaft of sunlight streams through the open window. He knows; knows how much Peter means to her and she can't describe why but the fact that her dad understands and knows, really _knows _suddenly lifts a weight off her she didn't know she'd been carrying all along. 

Can't describe it, but it breaks a dam in her and before she knows it she's gushing tears, like an endless fountain of sorrow. "Dad, it's not fair. Nathan's dying to save the world because I talked him into it. It's all my fault, Peter will lose Nathan because of me. He won't have anyone." 

He reaches across the table, steadies her hand; she hadn't even noticed she'd reached out to him. "He still has his mother." 

"She betrayed him." 

There's a pause and then he exhales, slowly. "He'll have you." And then adds quietly, almost as an afterthought. "He'll have us." 

Somehow the way he says it makes it a solemn promise rather than empty, comforting words. She wants to ask whether he really means it but knows he does so holds her tongue. She trusts him and there's no need to question his integrity when it's been forever proven to her once and for all; the scar in his side standing mute testimony to that devotion which Claire promises herself never to forget. 

* * *

They give the Petrellis ample time to reconnect and by the time they re-enter the room Nathan looks exhausted just from listening to Peter and Angela gently recount last week's events. He's a far cry from the strong, brusque man she'd known from her short stay in New York, limbs weak from disuse and voice coming out in rasps so gravely her throat feels scratched and raw just listening to him. 

"Claire. You're here." The naked wonder in his voice, so genuine and for once unmasking the caring man underneath, touches her more than she can express with mere words. So she just smiles, resolutely keeps tears overflowing and stands by Peter's side as she takes Nathan's hand, gives it a light reassuring squeeze. 

"I am." 

Angela excuses herself to see the doctor and make arrangements for Heidi and his sons to fly to Birmingham as quickly as possible. Glances once at Claire rather coldly but she doesn't take it personally because from what she's seen it's almost certainly nothing to do with her; Angela's worried about Nathan and determined in that unique Petrelli way to get what she wants, which is Nathan alive and well; and will use any means at her disposal to get it. Claire can definitely get behind that so she merely moves out of Angela's way as she brushes past. 

She wants to cry because it's only now she sees that Nathan and Peter are brothers; both fashioned from the same caring core powering different shells. But they're the same and for this she feels grief wash over her; it makes his loss all the more unbearable because she feels so much more closer to him now that she realises this. Wishes she hadn't but she can't take it back; nothing can be taken back now. 

She's talking about Nathan dying as if it was inevitable but then recalls her dream. It's not inevitable, Charles said so. Doesn't know why she's placing that much stock in someone who she's never met and by all accounts never will, but it's Peter's tale and she's just tagging along for the ride. 

They talk of light hearted things with Nathan, things of fantasy that don't ever touch on reality. Peter stares at her the entire time, darkness growing in his eyes. To Nathan he's gentle, soft, considerate; away from his brother's eyes he's beseeching her to make this stop, make all of this stop and it wounds her, every look and silent scream a fiery thrust at her side. 

Because she understands what it must be like, for him. Saying a prolonged farewell to a brother long admired, deeply loved but at the same time it's stupefying agony to watch him slowly disintegrate. Even now Nathan's fading, willpower not quite enough to keep himself slipping into unconsciousness. 

The last thing he says to them breaks her heart; thinks she actually hears it being shorn in two. "I love you both. Don't ever forget that." 

She's crying but doesn't know it; not until she hears the breaking of a man behind her. She turns, catches her dad's eyes as Peter collapses into her arms and they cry oh so quietly, muffled by each other's bodies. Her dad stands on the side lines watching them, watches them silently but not reverently; more like surveillance by a creature waiting to pounce. 

But after a while he slips unobtrusively out of the room; leaves them to their sorrow. 

They cling to each other softly, Nathan's laboured breathing providing a haunting requiem of a shattered family. 

* * *

She's having her umpteenth cup of coffee this week but her first for the day; knows it's bad for already hormonal teenagers to be juiced up on caffeine but it's so far down her list of priorities it doesn't register. She feels tired but anxious, like a caged bird so when Peter suggests a walk through the grounds she almost jumps into his arms with eagerness. So much so it almost – almost – induces a smile from him. 

Her dad's been shut up in talks with Angela all morning; Claire's sure they're speaking of matters of great import like powers and radiation treatment and feels guilty she's not showing more interest in saving Nathan. But then remembers that Peter whose got the most to lose from all of this is sitting, standing, walking and talking with her; so shuts thoughts of guilt and betrayal down resolutely. 

They stroll through the shaded lawn, the almost winter sparseness reflecting the barrenness of their hope. It's the season for death and destruction and somehow that means something to Claire, it shouldn't because it's stupid and superstitious but because the trees are dying and leaves are brown and lie dead on the ground, Nathan's going to die too and all their dreaming and desperation will ultimately count for nothing. 

She doesn't want this to be the last thing Nathan sees. This russet hued landscape that's so barren and ugly; it's not the place but the season she rails against. She wishes – doesn't know what, because to say it aloud even to Peter is a Catch 22. Once it's out in the open, once she admits she doesn't want this to be Nathan's last view of the world he helped save, she's allowing his fate to happen. Opening the door and tempting fate and the universe to take him away and she doesn't want that, not if there's even the slightest chance they can save him, somehow. 

She reaches out, fingers brushing lightly against coarse dry leaves. Wishes she can save Nathan, not just for Peter but for her and her family; for _his _family. Her two half-brothers she's never formally been introduced to, for Heidi who doesn't yet know of Claire's existence. 

"What's the matter?" 

Peter's concern seeps through his voice, into her pores. "Nothing." Everything. "It's just – I wish it wasn't so brown. Ugly. Nathan –" She can't continue, because doing so would admit defeat. 

He doesn't let her fort crumble, not yet. "We can't let it happen." He murmurs, so close his breath tickles her ear. 

"I know." It's cold today and the grounds are strangely deserted, either not many people get sick in Alabama or they've just stumbled into one of their dreams. But they're not because cars rev by in the distance and she can see people bustling about inside the hospital; but everything seems muted and strangely surreal. 

"The answer's love." He tries not to sound bitter or cynical, but it comes out that way anyway. Not that she blames him. 

"No offence, but what sort of crap is that? It doesn't make sense." He grumbles in agreement. "I mean, how's that meant to help?" 

"I have to believe it will." 

There's a pause; she wants to say something but it sounds silly and cringe worthy even inside her own mind, let alone floating out in the ether with Peter within listening. But they've shared so much the last few days, she shares it anyway. "Then I believe it too." 

It sounds mindlessly naïve and young, too young, accentuates her age which is something she's always keen not to do around adults, which Peter clearly is. But he takes her hand and crushes it, clasps them both close over his beating chest. "I'm glad you're here." Amends, almost as an afterthought. "You _and_ your dad. I owe you my life." 

"Twice." She replies impishly and this time she does draw a laugh out of him. It's tempered by sorrow and guilt but at least it's there, that spark of hope, if only for a moment. 

"Technically only once now." 

"_Once_?" 

"Homecoming." He doesn't need to elaborate, she gets it. Concedes the point and moves on. 

"Fine. Once, now." Smiles slyly at him. "But who's counting." 

They walk around a small pond, dirty and green with algae. The sort of thing Claire imagines not very welcoming in a hospital hoping to rejuvenate people's minds as well as bodies. They circle slowly, in almost languorous deliberation, and she wonders whether he's forgotten he's still holding her hand; hopes he hasn't but continues anyway. 

He observes matter of factly in the winter chill. "I'm hiding." 

"_We're _hiding." She gently chides, and he nods. 

"We should be up there, with him." 

Without pausing to contemplate further, she turns, pulls him slowly back to the hospital. Because he's right and he's hiding; they're both hiding from grief and sorrow about to assail them. And while it's nice to have a reprieve – god knows they've earned it – it's time to get back to their lives, their responsibilities. 

He knows it too. Together they climb to the top of the stairs, not once looking back at the barren sky behind them. 


	14. Part Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen**

It's twilight, the cusp of life and dreams; where light meets dark and beings of shadow coalesce into form. 

Or so she's always thought. Claire's always been a little afraid of the dark, which makes sense, being a child of light. She loves the sunshine and all it has to offer, hopes and dreams and cupcakes and cheers. In the dark though, no one sees. Loneliness and eternal wonder of who her parents really are, where she came from, how she came to be. 

It occurs to her now that maybe she doesn't need to be afraid of the dark; not anymore. She's finally found her real – biological – parents rather, for who is more real than her dad – and a genuine other family to boot. 

If she has to be honest with herself it's only really one other family member she's glad she discovered. Or maybe he discovered her; at this point delineations of that kind's moot. She doesn't count Angela as any sort of family because although they're related by blood, she feels no kinship whatsoever. She's a complete and utter mystery and unlike the night she first met Peter, she doesn't want to get to know Angela any better. 

She's thinking now, her brain rattles away at a million miles an hour. Wants to laugh at the irony of being unable to sleep when she most wants to, remembers all those bio and math classes she'd been unable to stay awake for. 

Peter's sleeping, seemingly peacefully, on the bed in Nathan's room. It's lucky for them it's not the peak season for fatalities, otherwise they'd be hard pressed to find a more comfortable and convenient place to crash while keeping Nathan company. 

Claire squirms for the millionth time on the rock hard chair, upholstery so worn it makes her young bones feel positively old and rickety. She's paced around the tiny room, hated its pristine white walls, glanced at the clock with the loud minute hand just tick-tocking Nathan's life away as if it's just another life. Because it isn't – he isn't – just another life and if that sounds callous, then so be it. Claire doesn't have to apologise for the way she feels. 

There's a gasp but it's only Peter starting awake. She's so agitated she doesn't even turn, makes a part of her wonder how flaky she really is. She spent weeks looking for him, tearing through half the country and now he's here and she's rescued him more than once she doesn't even bother greeting him when he wakes. 

"That's the most idiotic thing I've ever heard." He hisses; fleetingly she stores into her memory what a grouchy morning person he must be. 

"Then stop looking into my brain." She retorts rashly, her back still to him. "No one asked you to look in there." 

"I can't help it, you're always –" He stops himself abruptly and grabs his head; the silence so guilty it makes her turn and appraise him coolly in the darkness. 

"Always what?" She already knows the answer, even without his powers to look into his mind. 

He mumbles something about a bad dream and being bad tempered, but she thinks she knows. It doesn't bother her though so her temper simmers, wonders briefly whether her temper's something she shares with either Nathan or Peter, or both. "Don't even try answering me without asking. It's pretty rude to read someone's mind." 

"That's stupid." 

She turns as he pulls up an identical chair, careful to not scrape it across linoleum floor. "Are you going to call me stupid all night?" 

"Only when it's true." 

"I thought you were supposed to be the nice one in the family." Already her tone's a shade or two lighter, the twinkle back in her eyes. 

They sit in companionable silence with only the monitors keeping beat to Nathan's life beeping in the ether. "Don't you want to know?" 

He's asking her with everything, but most intriguingly of all, with his eyes. She wants to stick her tongue out, smirk, anything to show him how he doesn't get to her all the time, but can't. Doesn't want to at least so she leaves it at that. "Know what?" 

But he already knows that she knows. It's a dance she'll be well practised in before too long. "Whether you've got the famous Petrelli temper. We're Italian you know." 

"I already know I do. And I'm only half-Italian." She feels like sticking her tongue at him, only stops herself because it's just too childish while Nathan clings to life. 

"Oh yeah?" For a moment she thinks he's going to ruffle her hair but instead gently taps the tip of her nose with the his finger. It's curiously playful and she doesn't quite know how to react, so she just clears her throat and smirks. 

"Yep. And I also know _you _have that temper." 

"But I'm so nice!" 

"You are not. You only _pretend." _A part of her's feeling slightly guilty at being – what's the word – impish practically on Nathan's deathbed, but it's like she can't live in a world without smiles. Peter has that effect on her and if it's sacrilege then God – or someone else – should strike her down. "I know you, Peter Petrelli. You're as bad tempered and moody as the rest of us." 

"You do know me." He murmurs, all playfulness bleeding out of his voice. "But you're only 16." 

And just like that, darkness closes around them once more. "I am." She sighs. "I'm only 16 and all this has happened to me. But you know what? Molly's only little and Sylar killed her whole family just to get to her. The world's not fair, I just wish –" There it is again, that wish. If only wishing makes it true. 

Suddenly she can't hold it anymore, prevent the anger she's pretty much ignored this whole time. It rises like bile from her stomach, sears her throat and she can't swallow it, not now and not in the too-quiet stillness with Peter at her side. "It's not fair." She cries, doesn't quite manage to keep her voice down. "It's not fair, why does he have to die?" 

Instead of wailing and collapsing into Peter's arms, she runs to Nathan, slips her small fingers through his, holds his hand, hard. Holds their connection for Peter to see. "This doesn't mean anything does it? I've waited my whole life to meet my dad – bio dad – and he's here, and he's dying because I told him to save the world and the future's not written in stone. I told him – I told him to save _you_." Angry tears now streak her face; she's not going to be reticent about this, she's never done things by halves. "None of it matters. My dad doesn't matter, _you _don't matter, nothing matters." 

"Claire –" He tries taking her other hand in his, like it's going to calm her but instead she jerks it away, not unkindly. 

"Don't tell me not to think it, I know you've been thinking it too." 

He stiffens, withdraws a little and for a moment her heart skips a beat because she thinks she's well and truly pissed him off, but the next moment the darkness tempers and he's Peter again. "I have been. But it doesn't mean it can't be changed. You told _him _once, the future's not written in stone. Guess what? It isn't." 

Her whisper's so low it almost doesn't register even to her own ears. "What if it is? What if this was meant to happen all along?" 

Peter crosses from the other side of the bed, rounds on her in a few long strides. "It's isn't. It can't be." Clutches her arms hard, whether it's in desperation or anger she can't quite decide but his grip is just the right side of uncomfortable so it doesn't make her flinch. It gives him time to almost haul her bodily off her feet to meet his eyes, flaming pools of frustration and vulnerability all placed in a melting pot of emotion. "Don't ever say that again." He leans in, their faces dangerously close. "Don't." 

She nods; his intensity renders her speechless. She's not frightened or stunned by his ferocity even though she is a little surprised seeing it written so plainly across normally gentle features. But then it all makes sense again, because she sees – sees again with startled realisation how alike Peter is to Nathan, or vice-versa. 

They're so alike, which is the meaning of family. 

The thought calms her; douses dangerous flames she knows could've engulfed them both. What good are they to Nathan spitting useless sparks at the world? They need to be doing something, anything – even if it's to say goodbye. 

"I wish we could talk to him again." She jerks her eyes to Peter's, whose dark orbs meets hers in synchronicity. There's a flash of understanding; she knows his answer before she even formulates the question. 

His face is a mish-mash of emotion, fear, hope, guilt all rolling across it in waves. He leans over to peer into his brother's sleeping features as if they held the secrets to his salvation. "I'm not sure whether I can read his mind when he's asleep." 

"Try." She urges and it's all he needs. He squeezes his eyes shut and then there's a calmness about him. She watches, breath snagging in anticipation. 

He opens his eyes again, disappointed. "There's nothing. Just … nothing. Like he isn't even there." 

"He's asleep." 

"Shouldn't I be able to read his dreams?" 

"Maybe …" What could Claire say to that? She's not an expert and the distracted helplessness from Peter's suddenly making her nervous. Like she has to take him by the hand, lead him out of the tunnel and into the light. Metaphorically speaking of course. "He's probably – you know – doing that deep sleep … thing?" 

"You mean he's not in REM?" As far as she knows REM is a band, but whatever. He rolls his eyes, smiles just a fraction. "It's what people do when they're dreaming. REM. Rapid Eye Movement." 

"Oh." 

"I haven't tried." He sounds guilty, but he has no need to be. "I haven't even tried doing this before now. I should've tried." 

"You don't need to, you'll speak to him when he wakes up again." She's done a complete back flip or 180 or whatever it's called because she doesn't want to see what this can do to Peter, again. She's too tired, can't deal with it and so she has to believe that everything will work out. 

She just doesn't know how. She's alive and well, kicking as they say but she can't _do _anything. It seems even Peter and his huge repository of powers can't do anything to save Nathan; and Claire's a hundred times more useless than he is. She's just a stupid indestructible girl who regenerates, can't help anyone in any meaningful way. 

"Don't even _think _that way." He's looking at her like he's angry, too angry for something that has absolutely nothing to do with him. 

"Stop looking into my brain." Two famous Petrelli tempers are about to collide, but she doesn't have the maturity to back down. "I mean it!" 

"I don't care, you can't think that." He grits, reaches out almost automatically to cup her face. "I saved you for a reason, I have to believe – everything happens for a reason." 

"What good did saving me do?! What good am I alive when I can't help –" 

She stops only because of his expression, shock and not a little awe mixed in with a healthy dose of amazement. Can't see what's gotten him so mesmerised but then something catches her eye. 

It's a sudden amber glow, so stark and warm and bright it brings to mind something that seems so long ago, when she and her dad had rescued Peter from his watery almost-grave and his hands had called to her like a beacon. But that's not what literally takes her breath away, because this time – 

This time it's her, glowing. Or maybe it's Nathan, she doesn't know. As she stares in shock, surprise, amazement and a dozen other incomprehensible things all at once, it burns brighter and she begins feeling a tingling sensation at the tips of her fingers. It works its not-so-subtle way down to her palms, then her arms and for a while it's pleasant and warm like she's somehow emanating a living, breathing connection to Nathan, someone she's never really felt that connected to. 

The amber glow fades and she misses it for just a split second. But then her hand starts burning, bright and hot and searing; reminds her of the horrible dream with Peter before. Like sandpaper rubbing against her skin but from the inside out, rocks carousing through her veins and now they're tearing at her insides, raking delicate skin, making it bleed and seep and she doesn't know it yet, but she's crying out from the pain. 

Peter stares, too shocked for a moment but then jumps into action. Grabs onto Claire's arms, still holding tightly almost of their own accord onto Nathan, tries to yank them away but it's useless. Something's happening to her, to him, to them, she can't tell which because it's all too much. 

She gasps, eyes looking, no pleading for Peter to help but he can't, no one can. Through the racing of her heart and the hammering against her chest, she manages to gasp out. "What's happening to me?" 


	15. Part Fifteen

**Chapter Fifteen**

Peter finally manages to wrench her from Nathan. The pain still rockets through her veins at a million miles an hour; her breathing's ragged and her entire body's burns, so badly, like it's thrashing with fire. 

Odd, because she hasn't felt real pain in a long time. She almost missed it before but not so much now, not when it's being returned to her a thousand fold. 

But Peter's hands cup hers; they slowly cool red hot fire. Hazel eyes flash with worry and the burning's still so raw it's impossible to hide it from him. She can't hide the throbbing that's slowly creeping up her arms; can't hide her tears and when he lets her hands go only to wipe them from her face, his mixture of concern and blind fear enmeshes painfully with her own. 

She's relieved she's not the only one frightened to death by what just happened. She's complained – a lot – about her ability, had always behaved like it was an unbearable millstone around her neck, but the truth is that it's taken her to places and people she's never dreamed of. It's allowed her to find and save Peter more than once, to help save New York when it counted and find her biological father. Never mind half the things might not have happened if she hadn't been a freak of gigantic proportions, but the one thing that's been constant throughout all the craziness has been her ability; something that's always been a part of her if she understood her dad correctly. 

It's like she's watching as one of her limb's being slowly torn from her. They both stare at her hands, now raw and blistering and she can't refrain from gasping. He caresses her hands, examines them like they're the eighth wonder of the world, meets her eyes again and this time he doesn't hesitate. 

He strides out of the room, pulling her along. When she cries out at the pressure being applied he loosens his grip ever so slightly but keeps a tight hand on her, pulls her at, if not quite a breakneck pace, it's enough to require a little more concentration than usual to follow. 

"Where're we going?" She hates her voice; she's so scared, so weak, but Peter pretends not to notice. 

"To find your dad." She doesn't have to question him further because they're of one mind. She has no idea what just happened in Nathan's room and neither does he; hopefully her dad can shed some light on it and more importantly, calm their mounting fears. 

They find him a few rooms down; it's empty and still and the only people in it are her dad and Angela, conversing in hushed tones. When Peter strides in without a greeting both sets of brows arch in surprise but neither of them has any time to say anything because he drags, pulls, tugs her to their attention. 

"Noah, take a look at this." Peter sweeps past his mother like she's invisible and even through a haze of receding pain, she sees the sting of her son's inattention flicker before Angela's mask reasserts itself. But by then Peter's shoved her blistered and burned hands under her dad's gaze, looking at him with inquiring eyes, all the while keeping his hands securely around her wrists. 

Even now as her dad examines her hands in turn, they're healing. Slower than usual, but detectable nevertheless. The pain's receding more quickly; she's sure that pretty soon she'll forget what agony feels like again. 

His eyes widen just as their's had done moments before, shoots apprehensively down to hers. "Tell me what happened." 

"I'll show you." Peter's all grim and determined and the way he's taking this so seriously is weird and affectionate yet disconcerting at the same time. It's like her episode (for want of a better term) is providing a welcome distraction from Nathan's decline; another opportunity to prevent something bad happening to yet another member of a rapidly diminishing family. 

They walk quickly back to Nathan's room, Peter and her dad matching strides as they pull her gently along, Angela trailing curiously behind. She feels like a freak show or worse, like she's done something wrong even though that's clearly not the case. 

Nathan's breathing is steady when they arrive. Her dad gently takes her hand from Peter, switches on the fluorescent lights; his eyes widen at what he sees. 

Claire looks between her still throbbing hands and Nathan's arm, the places where she'd grabbed onto in so much anger. Instead of livid welts and blisters from recovering burns, his skin's pristine, even smooth. Unblemished and hairless, like the day he was born, if she's capable of imagining Nathan as a baby. 

"Dad?" 

"I don't know." She's so used to him having all the answers she's momentarily cast adrift by his uncertainty. But then remembers he's human and has had more than his share of drama to deal with in the past few weeks so cuts him some slack and besides, it's not the end of the world. She has her two heroes and as long as they're on the case, so to speak, she trusts that everything's going to be fine. 

Peter's more determined to get some answers though and doesn't pause for reflection or thought. Just races ahead and it's strangely endearing; reminds her of the night when they'd met and he'd rushed headlong into a fight with ultimate evil, not pausing to question his sanity. 

"Is it Nathan? Did something happen to him when I exploded that's causing this?" He holds her hand up for emphasis. 

"I don't know." Her dad sounds perplexed, worried and concerned as he gazes mutely at her hands. "You absorbed Ted Sprague's power." They continue to stare. "He … his power made him capable of emitting radiation." 

"So you're saying when I exploded –" Peter looks horrified, doubles over like he's about to be sick. "Did radiation from me do something to him? Did I – " 

Even Claire can see Peter's working up to yet another round of self-flagellation and so she's almost grateful when Angela steps in, her voice razor sharp. "Oh for god's sake Peter, calm down. Have you paused to think that perhaps the girl's powers are just developing? She's hardly past the age for it. Everyone seems bent on forgetting she's only a child." 

"Hey, I'm right here." 

Angela ignores her, shoots a dirty look to Peter and oddly, her dad. "You know what I think about dragging Claire into all this." 

Her dad looks once at her, then back to Angela through gritted teeth. "I think it's safe to say we disagree on that score." 

"What's she talking about?" Peter asks the same time she does, albeit with less of a quiver in her voice. 

"Dad?" 

He looks almost helplessly between them, then brushes aside Peter's question. Gingerly he places hands on her shoulders, bends down so they're at eye level. "Claire-bear, what did you feel when you grabbed Nathan?" 

"Nothing …" Shakes her head, amends quickly. "Nothing at first. But then –" She describes everything, tells her dad and Angela haltingly of the pain. She's changed her mind and now doesn't ever want to remember what absolute agony feels like, because it's awful and horrific and a thousand other words that defy description. 

And all the while Peter looks on, his heart in his eyes; except she can't decipher what's in those eyes so she looks away, confused. 

"Have you heard of anything like this?" He directs his words not to her but Angela, who again seems to have retreated from their tight knit circle. 

She's cagey, guarded; Claire hates her a little for it, maybe because she's the very antithesis of Peter who wears so much of his emotions like a badge of honour. "Yes." There's a dramatic pause, like she's divulging a carefully guarded secret. She can almost hear Angela's voice in the ether, _knowledge is power. _She knows it's from some movie she's forgotten the name of but the line suits her grandmother so well it may as well have been written specifically for her. "Linderman." 

Even her dad looks confused. "Yes, Linderman." Angela sighs impatiently, absently begins twirling her pearl necklace. "He has – _had _I should say – the power of healing." 

"Had?" 

"Linderman's dead Peter. He died the night of the … explosion." The very word makes Peter grimace; even Angela senses this and hastily continues. "He had a power too. Healing. He could heal everything but himself." 

"Are you suggesting evolution?" 

A strange look transpires between her dad and Angela, and Angela ever so subtly nods. Claire doesn't know what the heck is going on but thinks she's instinctively stumbled onto the answer. "Does this mean I can heal people too? As well as myself?" 

"Maybe." Her dad looks troubled. "But why did it hurt so much?" 

No one gets a chance to answer because Claire just realises something; something wonderful but oh so frightening at the same time. She's too afraid she's going to back down so rushes on, asking no one in particular but ends up half addressing her dad and Peter. "I can save Nathan, can't I?" 

She thought Peter would have been elated at this and he is, but he's also pensive, uncertain; most of all, torn. Her dad glances down at her; concern's lining his face. "I'm not sure." 

"I am." It's clear what she has to do now, like sunshine breaking through clouds after an angry, simmering storm. Knows it in her heart and bones and other places that heal of their own accord even if the others won't, can't, accept. 

She's indestructible, capable of spontaneous regeneration or whatever other fancy name it's called, but it's a part of her. It's a part of her that can save Nathan, and it's poetic because Nathan's a part of her, a part without which she wouldn't be alive. Wonders fleetingly whether this is coming full circle when it's really a part of her that she's saving? 

"I'm not sure whether that's a good idea." She doesn't understand Peter; she honestly thought he'd be glad, overjoyed at finding a way to save his brother. Instead he's torn and his voice carries a warning, like he's kicking into hyper-protective mode and she doesn't know why he's behaving this way. It's odd considering it was only a few days ago she'd fished him out of the shower, shivering and naked and defeated by a fate he hadn't been able to escape. 

Now they can escape it, save Nathan, return him to his family. Why isn't he embracing this more fully? "What do you mean? I can save Nathan. Isn't that _good _news?" 

"Not when you're going to suffer. And if it's anything like it was before …" Claire becomes acutely aware of Angela and her dad staring intently at their exchange; her dad's eyes especially grating, like they're studying her and she hates being scrutinized for reasons she's not privy to. 

But her attention's riveted on Peter; Claire plays her trump card, knows she's going to win this argument even though she still can't quite believe they're having an argument about something like this. Nathan's life is on the line and if she has to go through some pain to get him up and kicking for his brother – and his family – then she needs to try. "He's my father, your brother. How can I not save him?" 

She just betrayed herself with those words; it must be evident to everyone including Peter how selfless she's not. She's only known Nathan for a couple of weeks at most and hasn't developed the soaring heights of love and affection she shares with her dad, but that's not the reason she wants to do this. 

Peter's been her hero for what seems like an eternity and a half; saved her life and that's not a debt she can ever repay. Just like he can never repay his debt to her, they're two people bound together by mutual obligation, forever. 

"Claire. Don't." She can hear the silent, _not for me. _

"It's not going to kill me. You don't have to worry about that." Angela looks perplexed and so does her dad; they're missing half the conversation. "I just … I need to do this. Do you understand?" 

His eyes flare and burn bright, oh so bright and it's like she's basking in hazel sunlight. Claire can't express everything that's emanating from Peter so she doesn't, because she doesn't need to; it just _is_. 

He understands, and knows and recognises why she has to do this. Understanding passes between them like an electric current, jolting but powerful, wonderfully powerful and it galvanises her for what's to come. "Show me." He reaches out, clasps her hand securely in his. "Show me how we do this." 

Her dad tosses a questioning gaze at Peter who replies, crooked smile on display. "You think I'm going to let her do this alone?" 


	16. Part Sixteen

**Part Sixteen **

Claire's woozy from lack of sleep but there's no way on god's green earth she's not going to do this now. Not when her biological father's fading away, time is of the essence and besides, if she lays her head down on anything resembling a pillow there's every chance she'll go to sleep for a year.

She grips Peter's hands across Nathan's sleeping form, the other hand made slippery with sweat. It's stupid and silly but she's really, really scared and can't think of any reason why she is.

As she assured Peter a moment ago, she can't die, not from this and neither can he. But why is she so frightened? What does she think will happen?

"It's okay." Peter nods at her, only once but he's so reassuring it bolsters her courage once more. "We'll try, see what happens."

As Claire closes her eyes it feels like everyone in the room – with the exception of Nathan, of course – is holding their collective breaths in fascinated anticipation. After arguing so strenuously, her dad and Angela had capitulated and now they're all standing around Nathan's bed like they're conducting some ritual, like they're trying to rescue someone from death's very jaws. Which they are, so it's really not that strange at all.

"Ready?" Peter's voices pierces her thoughts; snatches her attention back to the present.

"No, not really." Even with closed eyes she feels his smile, designed to reinforce her strength and for that she's grateful. She knows, no _feels_, he's as petrified as she is but it's somehow okay because she's going through all of this with him. It's yet another thing they chalk up to the mounting list of things they share; she knows that as long as she lives she won't ever forget this.

He squeezes her hand; knows it's their signal to do – whatever they're supposed to do. But after a few tense moments her eyes fly open because nothing happens; there's a vast emptiness of _nothing _where everything should have been.

It's not working and as scared as she'd been, the lack of result's debilitating. "What's wrong?" Her dad quickly asks.

She's so annoyed and disappointed she can't even find the words. Even Angela looks upset, which makes Claire feel even guiltier. Not only did she get everyone's hopes up but now it looks like she's made a liar of herself.

But it's Peter who speaks; he's frowning but not defeated, not yet. "I didn't feel anything, did you?"

"No." Hopeless despair's threatening to crush their hopes but he's not giving in.

"What if –" His eyes flame alight; his entire body straightens and conviction and fire blaze forth, basks her with hope and trust and desire and comfort and everything else she can't put a name to.

It's their connection flaming into tangibility, a living, breathing umbilical cord and there's something there too, she sees it but can't quite understand, but it's a part of them all the same. And it's them, this thing, and together they're going to do this.

It fills her up, runs like ambrosia through her veins, so sweet and smooth she wants to bask in it, in _them_, forever. But then Peter's voice breaks through; it's only a whisper but it carries all his conviction, opens himself up for her to see. "Think of how you felt before, when you grabbed him."

Her mind returns when she grabbed Nathan, to her hands, her tears, her voice. Her anger.

"Think –"

_"I was angry."_

"I don't think you should be, when you do this." His voice is like honey, dreamy and smooth and it's like she's stumbled into yet another one of their dreams.

_"I …I don't know how else to be."_

"It hurt you because you were angry."

_"How can you _possibly _know that?"_

"Because." His smirk's there even if she can't see it. "Before, I thought I had to control my feelings to use my power. But I was wrong."

_"Then how?"_

"I had to _remember_, remember how the person made me feel." She sees a cheerleader, bloodied, running, screaming for help. A handsome, dark haired stranger minus the shining armour but he's her knight all the same, telling her to –

_"Run!" _

They're on the floor and she's looking into his eyes, intense and dark and uncertain but she's safe for now because of him. _"Hey, what's your name?" _

_"Peter. What's yours?"_

Her eyes snap open; those same eyes now stare back at her, deep and dark but no longer uncertain. "Do you get it?" He asks, but knows she does; knows at this moment she always will.

She nods, breathes once more for luck, and then –

It happens, she feels it instantly, feels her healing for lack of a better word flow from her brain to her chest and heart, through her veins to her fingertips and suddenly her fingers are warm; they tingle but it's not uncomfortable by any stretch of the imagination. It strangles her for a moment but because Peter's there she doesn't panic; she feels him close, so close it's like he's standing beside her even though he's not.

He's more than standing next to her, it's like – she won't ever be able to describe it to anyone else, not ever and not accurately, but knows he feels it too. It's like their essences have mingled and he's in her veins and she in his; and together – only once they're together do they try to heal Nathan.

She's a little scared of the pain, the memory of it too recent to forget. But she feels Peter, soothing the fear lurking and writhing under her skin. Hesitates just a little and his face comes unbidden into her mind; the sun's shining in the background and they're by the sea, azure water gleaming in sparkling sunlight. Sees his smile, caring but determined and she realises it's how she's always pictured him – her hero, shining in her thoughts.

It's that smile that gives her the last ounce of courage; she takes a deep breath and dives straight in. It's the Petrelli way, that headstrong determination they both share and she's so grateful he's there with her, holding her as they heal Nathan, together.

The pain returns, the blisters, burns and it's like her arms are being set ablaze. But it doesn't hurt nearly half as much as it did before; she doesn't know whether it's because she's not angry or Peter's with her or both but the absence of pain gives her courage to dive deeper.

The entire process is surreal and absurd, really. When she tries describing it to her dad later she'll say it was like taking on everything that had happened to Nathan, allowing her power to heal him through her. She'll say that it wasn't easy, running on instinct and maybe Peter's limited experience of controlling his own wayward powers, but knows there's really one thing that was decisive in getting her through it all.

It's too scary to admit so she doesn't, not even to herself.

She opens her eyes a split second before Peter does. Sees the instant when he returns to the present, returns to only one of the realities they share. Their eyes meet in what seems like a bubble of silence; dimly she hears Angela gasp in shock, surprise, hope, wonder and her dad she thinks is staring, eyes agog, like she's the second coming.

But she's not there with them, not yet. Her connection with Peter lingers and for a moment it's like they've got one foot in two realities, only one of which being uncle and niece matters.

It's not the fleeting look of amazement that shocks her, it's – she can't vocalise it because it scares her in its perfection; it's like looking directly into sunlight – but recognises it all the same. She can admit though in that instant their connection, bond, link and love – yes, even love – cements and crystallises and she sees, _really _sees, how their need saved the cheerleader, the dreamer, the world … and finally, their family.

Funny, to think a grown man needs _her, _a mere girl, but it's the truth. And she needs him, needed him even before she knew it and will need him always forever after.

Their moment simmers and crackles in the air before it's swallowed by that other reality, the world they both live in. She regrets it; because she knows the perfection of her retreating realisation will be forgotten, lost to her in the real world.

She doesn't know how long they stand there staring mutely; one minute Angela's bending over Nathan's slowly reawakening form and the next she's giving Claire a hug that almost verges on being grandmotherly. "My dear girl." There's no trace of the domineering matriarch now, she's all tears and Claire's heart catches in her throat to see a real person underneath Angela's cold, calculating veneer. "Thank you for saving my son."

What can a girl say to that? Not thank you; so she just nods and that's when she notices tears streaming down her face and exhaustion creeping through her limbs. Her dad's already there, peering anxiously down at her.

"That wasn't so hard after all, was it?" Claire smiles wanly, wants it to be reassuring. She notices how pale Peter looks, how unsteady on his feet.

Takes one ungainly step towards him before toppling into blackness.

* * *

When she wakes from a sleep filled with blissful nothingness it's late afternoon and hazy sunlight streams through the windows. It takes her a long, heavenly moment to orient herself but when she does, knows obviously she's not in Kansas anymore.

"You're awake." Her dad's smile is all relief and tight concern; he's trying very hard to hide it but she can see it even through his glasses that are partially reflecting the light.

She struggles to shrug the comforter off her face and shoulders, ends up in a tangle of curls and sheets. "Where am I?"

He tells her softly they're at a local boutique hotel; Nathan's okay and awake but weak and Angela's busy filling Heidi in on what happened. She must've looked stricken at the mention of Nathan's wife because her dad hurries to reassure her. "It's okay, she – I think she understands. For now anyway. Just glad to have Nathan back I think."

Claire nods; she can't really do anything about it right now but doesn't look forward to the moment when she has to meet Heidi or his two real sons. It's going to be awkward as all out; imagines herself in Heidi's place and knows she wouldn't be so accommodating to her husband's illegitimate offspring.

But another thought topples this one and she sits quickly, grabs her dad's arm. "Where's Peter? Is he okay?"

"He's fine." She doesn't understand the look he gives her, brushes it off as her mind not quite regaining full function. She feels like she's been run over by a truck, run over again and then put through a meat grinder before being assembled back together. "He's sleeping in the other room."

It's not like she doesn't trust her dad but a part of her knows she won't sleep again until she sees him. "I want to see –"

"He's sleeping." His brusqueness takes her aback; but the next moment his soft smile's back and she thinks she must've imagined it. "He – he made sure you were okay, helped me get you here. Then he collapsed like you did."

She doesn't even have to finish, it's obvious now what happened. "How long –?"

"Longer than I thought." Is all her dad's willing to admit and she doesn't press the issue. She's safe and warm and everything seems to be readjusting to normality, except for one thing she has to do.

It seems like her dad knows it and what's more accepts it too. He stands and helps her up even though by this time she's more than capable of standing on her own. She's not the one they'd just rescued from the jaws of death after all.

He gestures to the room across the hall, gazes at her strangely as he hands her the key to Peter's room. She doesn't think about it then but when she revisits it later she wonders how she could've possibly missed it.

Maybe all her attention's focused on turning the old fashioned key in the lock, opening the door, peering inside to check he's okay. She cranes her neck as she steps over the threshold, closes the door quietly behind her. Stares into the gloom; the blinds are drawn, would've doubted her sense of him being there if not for one thing.

He's snoring softly, cadence rising then falling which for some reason is funny, really funny and the more she listens to the odd half-snorting, half-snoring sound he makes in sleep the more she wants to laugh or giggle because it's just so silly. They've been through so much together and now he's snoring like there's no tomorrow. As she tiptoes closer the mundane picture completes; his dark hair flies randomly and rather unattractively in every direction, his body splayed and tangled in the comforter, one leg sticks out and dangles bizarrely over the edge of the bed, uncovered enough so she can just see that her uncle wears boxers, not briefs.

She smiles in the darkness but can't quite manage a giggle, not yet. It'll come though, and until then she's content to sleep, and wait and dream.


	17. Part Seventeen

**Part Seventeen**

Claire's decided she's earned the right to spend the rest of the day in bed, so she impishly tells her dad that's just what she's going to do. He looks fondly down at her, gives her a peck on the forehead and agrees saving her biological father's life does warrant some sort of reward.

Her day – what's left of it – is complete by a soft knock on the door, followed quickly by Peter poking his head in. His hair's still flying in all directions and it's clear he's made absolutely no effort to flatten it which gives Claire the giggles; she doesn't stop even when he comes fully inside, sits at the edge of her bed looking rather put out.

"What?"

She titters, gesturing to his hair. His eyes shoot heavenwards and he sighs a little dramatically. "Oh." Quickly flattens it then pokes her in what he imagines is her tickle spot, quite offended. "You don't have to laugh. It gets messy when I don't brush it. I just need some product."

She only stops because he does look a little hurt, figures it's not nice to laugh at him to his face. Her smile does linger though; she can't help it but does attempt to sound contrite. "I'm sorry."

"You better be." He pokes her stomach and this time he does find her tickle spot, and for a few moments she's a girl again with no pressing concerns other than getting away from his eager hands.

She's squirming and he's climbing onto the bed to pursue the battle, hands searching and finding just the right spots. Claire's in the middle of an eruption of giggles when their game's halted by her dad clearing his throat loudly in the doorway.

Peter looks up, smile falling from his face rather sheepishly as he scrambles off the bed, clears his own throat in turn. "Noah, we were just –"

Her dad ignores him, looks at them both quite seriously. "Nathan's awake again."

* * *

Their reunion with a fully conscious Nathan is as emotional and tear filled as she thought it'd be. His brush with death is still harrowing enough to remind everyone how precious life is, and so even Nathan's trademark brusqueness is missing when Claire, with her dad and Peter, finally get to the hospital. 

Claire's so relieved and happy – yes, happy – to see her biological father awake and well breathing, she misses the silent, dark haired figure with the porcelain face sitting on the other side. Once Claire retreats from the hug she'd rushed to give Nathan to make way for Peter, she catches the other woman's eyes on her, catches how Heidi's gaze lingers over her hair and eyes.

She knows even without Peter's power what Heidi's thinking. She's trying to see bits of her husband in her; doesn't know whether it'll hurt more or less if she sees anything of Nathan or Petrelli Claire's inherited.

Claire clears her throat, thinks absurdly of how much throat clearing there'd been today but yeah, she doesn't know what else to do. The room's feeling claustrophobic between the emotional greeting between Peter and Nathan, her dad looking on silently, Nathan's two boys chatting inanely to Angela, oblivious to the drama, not to mention Heidi and her aforementioned scrutiny.

There's no grand gesture from the older woman though. She and Heidi stare uncomfortably at each other over the general chatter, over Nathan's bed and no introductions are made for which Claire is eternally grateful. What Heidi does do is nod ever so slightly; just that small acknowledgement of her existence is enough to put Claire at ease and she doesn't need anything else from her or them; she has her dad and Peter and they're all that matter to her.

Peter's face is streaked with tears which Claire finds really touching; she's glad she's part of a family who truly love each other, just like she loves her dad. It hadn't been clear until now how important Nathan was – is – to Peter and once again she's glad, so glad, her powers helped Peter save this person who's so clearly the centre of all these lives around him.

Things finally settle between the brothers though and when they do, Nathan beckons to her. Suddenly the din subsides and the room is eerily quiet like the volume's been turned down by an omniscient hand. Heidi stands and gathers her sons, looks back at Nathan with a slight nod. "Come on boys, let's get you a special treat now that daddy's here. How about some ice cream?" The boys' cheers echo as they disappear down the hall.

Nathan looks expectantly to Angela. "Mom?" Looking a little put out Angela assents, exits the room and Nathan's just about to say something when his eyes catch on something behind her.

Or rather, someone. He squints hard, looks her dad up and down. "Do I know you?" He asks pointedly; it's obvious he knows who her dad is already.

"I tried to kidnap you once." Her dad replies, unfazed and absurdly calm, meeting Nathan's stony gaze. "In Vegas." He adds, as if that settles the issue.

It's a credit to Nathan that he doesn't spontaneously combust right there and then, judging from the fury that lights his eyes. "That's right. And you are –?"

"Claire's dad."

The silence hanging in the room is so thick Claire thinks of knives and cutting through it or some cliché or other, but the danger's over relatively quickly and before she knows it, Nathan's smiling crookedly. It's really strange because – yes, it reminds her of Peter's trademark smile which somehow tells her – more than anything else – how alike they are. "Told you I never forget a face."

"I'll have to remember that." Her dad murmurs, nodding at Nathan. The two men share what begins as a flinty eyed glare but ends much more amiably. Though they don't do the requisite handshake, Claire realises it's enough to maintain the peace; she makes a mental note to ask her dad what it means later.

Her dad moves to go; it's like he has a power of his own, so attune he is to her, knows how much she wants to talk to Peter and Nathan about everything that's happened. "I'm sure you have a lot to talk about." He kisses Claire on the forehead. "I'll be outside if you need me."

"Thanks Dad." She catches Nathan's expression and realises how peculiar seeing that must be for him, his biological child being someone else's daughter. The thought makes her stand rather awkwardly, like a deer caught in headlights and the brothers' equally intense gazes.

"Mom tells me I have you to thank Claire."

"For …?"

"For being alive."

"Oh." Claire shuffles on the spot, looks awkwardly down at her feet. "I didn't do it on my own. I had Peter."

"Yeah, you did." The softness of Nathan's voice, the care and – yes, love – gives her the courage to look up; when she does Peter's there, smiling and she's never seen him so happy before, not even in their dreams. "And I'm grateful. I just want the two of you to know that. I'm grateful for my life."

"Nathan, I'm sorry –"

"I hope you're not about to apologise for jumping out the window." He interrupts, voice gruff with emotion. "'Cause you know saving my life probably cancels that crap."

She returns his smile gratefully, knows she doesn't need to be plagued by guilt again for her actions that fateful night. She's been absolved of her sins for lack of a better word.

Peter probably knows his brother a lot better than she does but even Claire senses this is a rare moment they're sharing. When the intensity of their relief passes Nathan will return to his calculating self and Peter and Claire will have doubts again, doubting themselves and their abilities to do good in the world.

But for now, she feels her connection to both of them, making her feel safe, together – a family. And that's all that matters.

* * *

Claire's promptly but politely dismissed when Heidi returns with Nathan's sons; they're relatively well behaved for kids with ice creams but she understands Nathan's real family has just entered the room. So she smiles and quietly withdraws; is surprised however when Peter follows her out. 

The lopsided smile is there again. Maybe it hadn't left his face. "What?"

"You –"

He shrugs. "Thought I'd give them some time to talk, be a family you know. Just like us." He playfully punches her shoulder, the smile dropping slightly off his face. The gesture's a little awkward like he's trying to make a point, but for all their intimacy she doesn't get what it's supposed to mean.

This is precisely what she misses about their dreams; wonders now that all the drama's over whether they'll be sharing any more. Misses their crystalline reality where she didn't have to guess what he's trying to say, misses their connection in its purest, most unadulterated form.

"Um …" Most of all, she misses _them. _In this world, reality, whatever, she's 16 years old with all the adolescent awkwardness that attaches to that age and he's 26 and a hospice nurse who happens to be her uncle.

"Let's get some coffee." He must have seen or more likely sensed her discomfort; he leads her with soft arms past her dad and Angela who wait patiently a few doors down. Her dad quirks his eyebrows and leaves it at that, but both of Angela's brows shoot heavenwards; it's lucky Peter ushers them both past quickly otherwise Claire's sure they would've been stopped.

She thinks she'll be able to relax when she's got a cup of steaming coffee in her hands, but she doesn't. Instead they stare in heavy, thick silence at each other, long and hard enough for her to start wondering what colour Peter's eyes really are. She's always thought of them – seen them – as hazel, but under fluorescent lights they're almost dark enough to be brown, with specks of green maybe. She can't decide.

"What're you thinking?" He asks, then catches himself. It sends both of them into peals of laughter, shattering the awkwardness into a thousand, million pieces of absurdity.

"Can't you just –?"

"Yeah." He grins into his cup. "That was a pretty stupid thing to say, wasn't it?"

"Not stupid at all." She can't help the fond lilt that attaches to her voice. He's her hero, always will be, and heroes are genetically incapable of being stupid. "Well, maybe a little."

"I say a lot of stupid things. Can't help it, when I feel something, it just comes out." Smirks a little sheepishly, dark bangs flopping over his face.

"Really? That's hard to imagine." She's teasing but there's more than a grain of truth to it. She really can't imagine him being stupid or silly in any situation. "I guess I'll just have to judge for myself."

"I guess you will. We'll have plenty of time to get to know each other." This time the silence isn't awkward or stilted, it's all comfort and ease and everything she imagines being with him will always be. Relishes the thought of just being with him, wonders fleetingly whether he'll find it stupid to hang out with his niece but figures after all they've been through they're hardly just uncle and niece anymore, if they'd ever been.

Something else occurs to her then. "You absorbed my power. You could've healed Nathan without me."

He laughs; to his credit rather sheepishly and not without a small amount of guilt. "Maybe, probably. I'm not sure I could've done it alone. I … have trouble controlling my emotions as it is." His stare is solidly dark, murky and serious all of a sudden. "I wouldn't have wanted to bet Nathan's life on me."

"You thought _I _was a better bet?" She squeaks.

"Sure." He downs a large mouthful of coffee, dark eyes sparkling with so much mischief it's hard to reconcile _that _to respecting one's elders and besides, Peter isn't _that _much older than her. "You may be short, but you're a lot stronger than you look."

In response she attempts to assault him, tries thumping his chest but he's too agile for her, backing up quickly so she's left swinging at empty air, self-satisfied smirk plastered on his face.

She sticks her tongue out. "I'll so get you, old man."

"One day maybe. One day."

* * *

They're back at the hotel and it doesn't take her any time at all to gather her things; she only literally had the clothes on her back after the explosion and the only things she's picked up since were the essentials required for basic hygiene. She's not even equipped with a hairdryer or curlers and that's saying something drastic for Claire Bennet. 

Her dad is silent and curiously unyielding on their drive back from the hospital, the Bennets leaving the Petrellis by Nathan's side as he begins his slow recovery. At first she'd thought they'd be going back in a short while but when he tersely asks her to gather her things and put them in the car, she frowns and another possibility surfaces in her mind. "Dad, we are going back to see Nathan, right?"

She hears him take a deep breath, knows that something awkward is coming. "No, we're not."

She waits, patiently waits for an explanation because if there's one thing she's learned from all of this, it's to trust the people she loves. But when nothing's forthcoming she bursts impatiently, frustration already beginning to colour her tone. "What? Why not?"

There's a sigh; she turns to confront him but his back's still toward her, his jacket is in his hands and even from this angle she senses it's going to be something unpleasant. "We're not going back. We're going to California. Now."

"What?!"

He turns, unfazed by the furious sparks spitting from her eyes. "We're going to California. Mrs Petrelli's taking over Linderman's organisation. She's asked me to head up their operation on the west coast and I've agreed."

"What about Peter?" She adds awkwardly. "And Nathan? We can't just leave him here. And you – how can you work for those people again, after what they did to us? To Mom and Lyle?"

"Mom and Lyle are safe. They're safe, Claire, because of Mrs Petrelli." Her stomach flip flops in reverse, floored by guilt and relief and a lot of other things she's not able to express. She'd assumed after her dad's mad dash to New York with Matt Parkman and Ted Sprague that the rest of their lives would be spent running, separated from her mom and brother but now – is he saying what she thinks he's saying?

"Are they coming to California with us?"

"Yes, they are." He closes the distance between them, enfolds her into a hug and something like tears of joy well in his eyes. "We're going to be a family again."

"But how?" Left breathless with surprise and disbelief, she blurts out the next thought in her mind without thinking. "What about Peter?"

"I'm not sure what his plans are, but I assume he's going to be staying in New York with his family."

"But –" Claire sees where this is heading and it's a bittersweet realisation. "Why California? Can't we stay in New York?"

"Claire." He's trying his hardest to be patient and despite everything it feels like he's telling her what's going to happen instead of discussing it with her like equals, which grates at her. "Mrs Petrelli's asked me to look after the west coast operation. I need to be on the west coast. I need to protect you, and I can't do that if you're not with me."

It all sounds perfectly reasonable and yeah, it makes sense but she can't help feeling like she's being torn in two by the thought of being so far from Peter. Guilt and remorse fill her up too because she should be a hundred percent glad their family's going to be reunited, but she can't help it. Peter's her family now too, as much as her dad and mom and Lyle and the thought of being so far from him hurts, really actually hurts, like someone's just punched her hard in the gut.

"Can I at least say bye to everyone? To Peter?" She asks in a stupidly tiny voice, hating the pleading in it.

He shakes his head sadly. "I'm sorry Claire bear. We're booked on a flight to LA in an hour."

She's finally angry, honest to god angry. "What's the hurry? I can't say bye to anyone? After everything that's happened, you expect me to just leave him? Leave them?"

He zips his bag, the sound for some reason echoing finality, like his decision. "You'll see them soon. Mrs Petrelli's invited us over for Christmas, so you'll see them – you'll see Peter then."

Her eyes widen; she opens her mouth to say something but nothing comes out. His last words put everything into context, like pieces of a puzzle being assembled right in front of her. Doesn't know if the last words he said were deliberate or a slip of the tongue, but knows that it's part of the reason why she's being relocated as far from New York as possible. It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together and really, Claire's no genius by any stretch of the imagination.

She wants to be angry, but can't. It's strange and elusive but she understands why, understands their concern. If she isn't who she is and privy to the connection pulsating between her and Peter she may be worried too by their intimacy. The very thought of them thinking _that _about their closeness seems to sully what she shares with Peter, but knows they can never, ever understand what they share, knows it can never be categorised definitively or explained. So she doesn't try.

She understands but it doesn't mean she has to be happy about it. She glares at her dad who stands unfazed by her anger, whips around to head down to the car.

* * *

Her new room is barren and cold, which is stupid considering it's California and within driving distance to LA's supposedly mild climate. There's also absolutely nothing in her room expect for a mattress which her dad promises will be transformed into an actual bed when her mom and Lyle arrive tomorrow morning and they'll go on a shopping spree never rivalled in the history of the Bennet family. 

She's still sulking over their abrupt departure from Alabama, can't believe that only this afternoon she'd been sitting in the hospital cafeteria drinking yucky coffee with Peter and now she's in a brand new model house with absolutely nothing to remind her of home. The house is so new the smell of paint still permeates the air; everything is quiet and dark outside and she suspects in the daylight she'll discover they've landed in one of those awful housing estates that have their own rules about ugly lawn ornaments and how tall their grass can be before it has to be mowed.

She resolves to find the ugliest, gaudiest thing she can tomorrow and put it out on the lawn for all their neighbours to see.

She hasn't talked to her dad for hours and continues the trend, stomping into what is to be her room (very large with its own walk in wardrobe but it's not nearly enough to make up for leaving Peter and Nathan) and slamming the door behind her. Crashes onto the mattress after covering it with sheets they'd gotten on their way from LAX, wanting to wipe the afternoon from her memory.

Doesn't know whether it's her calling him or him calling her, but even before she closes her eyes she feels him there, with her in the warm, sultry air.

They're back in the field of gold, the place she'll forever associate with him and him alone. The sun shines down on them, gentle breeze ripping through their hair, tangy, salty smell of the sea at their backs. "We had to leave." She says ruefully, looking into eyes that truly remind her of home.

"I know. My mom told me." She senses more unspoken words, so she waits patiently. Knows that he knows that she knows, and they both smirk at the thought with no end. "She thinks it's better you grow up away from all of this. Whatever 'this' is." Gestures around them, a veritable haven and Claire would describe it as heaven but knows it's only a poor facsimile of the real thing. But it'll do for now.

"She doesn't know, does she?" Claire asks, whimsically smiling at him.

"Does your dad?" He rejoins, answering her question. Her dad suspects, already knows they're capable of sharing dreams, knows it's a possibility they'll continue to do so. But maybe is resigned to the fact that he won't be able to stop it; maybe is even comfortable with them sharing dreams because they're _just _dreams.

Which is ironic, because her dreams with Peter aren't _just _dreams. She can't decide what's more real to her. Is she just a girl dreaming of a life with her dad and sharing reality with Peter?

"I'm going to have to start at a new school." She grumbles; it's all in good nature and he knows it. Tolerates and even is amused by it, reaching out to twirl tendrils of golden hair absently in his fingers.

"You'll be with family. That's what counts, isn't it?"

"But I won't be with you." She mumbles but doesn't colour, knows here and now he feels the same way. "I wanted to get to know you. For real."

"You know it's real." He looks at the lighthouse in the distance, listening to the roar of the waves. "You'd find me boring anyway. I was a nurse, you know."

She giggles. "I know. A –"

"Don't say it."

"A murse." She erupts into a fountain of giggles and suddenly he's there, tickling her. Knows her weak spots now and she succumbs embarrassingly quickly, can't even muster enough energy to retaliate to find _his _weak spots.

He doesn't relent until she's breathless from laughter, breathing hitching and she has to scream and scream for him to stop. When he finally does she's lying face up, glorious sunshine obscured by Peter's self-satisfied expression, his bangs tickling her face. "You seem to have a habit of tickling underage girls."

His smile widens, no trace of awkwardness in his features. "Only if they're my niece." Makes no move to withdraw his hands and she's glad, being with him feels like a part of home she's been missing for so long.

He's home, and she's glad he's with her. She draws him close, sinks deep into his chest, happy to touch this home she'll never be parted from ever again. He gathers her in his arms; feels his muscles rippling as he holds her tight against him.

So she closes her eyes, and sleeps with him by her side.

**Finis**

**Author's Note**: Well, it's finally finished! I hope you enjoyed the story, I must admit I did like writing it, especially from Claire's POV. The style is somewhat new to me but after this experience I think I'm going to keep it. Drop me a line to let me know what you think, I always enjoy hearing comments.


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